


One Miraculous December

by journeytogallifrey



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is Trying, Fake Marriage, Fluff and Angst, Genderfluid Crowley, Holidays, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Pining While Kissing, Post-Canon, Romantic Gestures, Slow Burn, alternating povs, and they're playing tennis with the shared brain cell, everyone is oblivious, gratuitous footnotes, in a relationship but Crowley doesn't know it yet, they're just really soft okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 122,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27828658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/journeytogallifrey/pseuds/journeytogallifrey
Summary: Candles. Mistletoe. An entire frozen lake. Festive memories from their past together keep appearing out of nowhere.Crowley's sure he's manifesting them accidentally out of sheer romantic desperation. It's bad enough trying to hide his unrequited love as they grow closer post-Apocaloops - what if Aziraphale sees the objects for what they are, a window into his yearning soul? Unfortunately, the only way to banish the objects seems to betalkingabout each memory...Meanwhile, Aziraphale is just trying to woo his demon boyfriend with big gestures, ready to prove his devotion. And if Crowley acts awkward about the miracles? Surely that's just his difficulty accepting affection. The solution: shower him with as much of it as possible...Eventually these two will communicate, even if it takes 'til the end of the year. For now there will be cuddling, excuses for closeness, sappy words, flashbacks, nostalgia, bickering, and an obscene variety of holiday foods. Oh, and footnotes. That's right. We're doing those too.---Fills for the Ineffable Holiday 2020 prompt list by Caedmon. Updates every day through the end of December.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling
Comments: 290
Kudos: 196
Collections: Ineffable Holiday 2020





	1. Ice Skating

**Author's Note:**

> For [ this marvelous holiday prompt list](https://caedmonfaith.tumblr.com/post/632906396202074112) by Caedmon! Go check it out, and also come see me on [Tumblr](https://journeytogallifrey.tumblr.com).

Crowley is already thinking about the ice when he walks into the bookshop and finds a frozen lake where the floor used to be.

Time has flowed strangely ever since the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. In one sense, it moves deliciously slowly, like a morning on which one wakes only to discover that it’s the weekend and there’s plenty of time for a long luxurious stretch before rolling over and going back to sleep. This is time with Aziraphale: mornings and afternoons and evenings stretch out, and there’s so much _room_ in them now that Crowley finally feels like he can _breathe_. Sure, he has to keep a general lid on the _my angel, I love you mad, let me keep you, you don’t even know it but you’re my everything_ that is constantly threatening to spill over from his soul, but all in all it’s been an idyllic summer.

In another sense, time must be hurtling past unseen at breakneck speed, because Crowley opened his door this morning to a gust of freezing wind and it only got worse from there. Winter has snuck up on him without so much as a courtesy warning.

He bundled himself up in scarves* and made his way to the bookshop, passing a small pond where a few brave children were making tentative forays out onto the ice, and that’s where his mind stuck and has remained all the way to the bookshop door.

 _*To be precise, two scarves: one hideously expensive high-end designer-brand scrap of fabric about two inches wide, and under it one not-expensive-just-hideous fluffy warm piece about two inches_ thick _that Aziraphale had gifted him in exasperation one freezing year, which he can never be seen wearing and also will never throw away for the rest of all time._

It’s a luxurious memory: Aziraphale bundled up for winter, 1860, smiling up at him as they watch the skaters in St. James’s Park.

 _“I’ve never done it before,”_ he said. _“Can you show me?”_ And so Crowley took his hand (how completely absurd! How absolutely lovely!) and pulled him out onto the ice.

Aziraphale’s cheeks turned rosy in the cold air and he clung to Crowley’s arm like a lifeline as they circled the lake, Crowley acting for all the world like he hadn’t spent a week alone in 1859 sprawling over the ice on too-many-jointed limbs, feet sliding out from under him, heatedly blessing the assignment that had forced him to learn this ridiculous skill. This time, with an angel on his arm, he glared down at the treacherous skates beneath him and willed them: _You will not slip, you will not betray me, you will not make me let go of him for an instant._

Under demonic threat and with a strong sense that he had every intention of following through, they obeyed.

It must have lasted half an hour, the world all quiet with snow, and though Aziraphale’s death grip eased with practice, he did not release him. Arm in arm, they could nearly have been just another couple, skating together like sweethearts and drinking in the excuse for closeness.

Ridiculous. Luxurious.

Now, Crowley steps into the bookshop and gapes at the vast shiny expanse on the floor before him. He could swear the shelves and columns are further from the center than they used to be, they must be, to make room for this – this _monstrosity_. He can only imagine how upset Aziraphale will be –

“Isn’t it strange?”

Crowley hears the voice from his right and turns. Aziraphale stands by the staircase, hands clasped calmly in front of him, almost – smiling?

“It was like this when I arrived this morning,” says Aziraphale with his eyebrows raised.

“You’re _joking_.”

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’, sounding altogether less horrified with the situation than Crowley would have expected. “What do you think? Rather lovely, isn’t it?”

“Ah…” Crowley looks out over the indoor lake as if he’ll find a sensible response written there. (Certainly there isn’t one in his brain.) “’S a lake. _In_ your bookshop.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale is watching him very closely for some reason.

“How – how is there a lake in your bookshop? Makes no sense. We’re indoors. It’s not even cold –” As he says it he swears he feels the temperature creep down a few degrees. “And – and it’ll melt in the spring, get water over all your books –”

“Oh, I’m sure it won’t _stay_ like this,” Aziraphale says, scandalized by the very notion.

“Course, it’s not real.” Crowley finally starts to work through it in his head. “Must be a miracle. One of us must’ve –” And he freezes stiller than the water as he remembers passing the skaters on the way over, the memory of Aziraphale on his arm fresh in his mind. And then this lake, here, like a great metaphysical afterimage of his yearning –

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” says Aziraphale primly, interrupting his panic. “But since it’s here, I _was_ wondering…” He hesitates, recapturing Crowley’s attention, and then reaches down behind some boxes and comes up with two pairs of skates looped over his arm. “Might we take advantage?”

Crowley’s brain finds this remarkably difficult to process, and when he cannot find a suitable response in time, his head nods on its own. Because his whole body defaults (as it always has) to _yes, agree with the angel, give him whatever he wants_.*

 _*This has resulted in a number of unfortunate situations over the years, most often attendance to some tragic play or opera after he’d been too caught up in Aziraphale’s eyes and forgotten to argue in time. He has also glazed past a few Arrangement conversations – “we don’t_ really _need a coin toss this time, do we, dear fellow?” – and accidentally promised to try foods he finds repugnant. And that’s not even to mention a conversation he once agreed to in 242 AD Persia; to this day he has no idea what was actually said, only that he nodded absently and soon found himself slathered in pomegranate yoghurt with his arm halfway down the jaw of a tiger._

Aziraphale’s smile lights up his whole face, and Crowley’s heart lights with it. “Excellent. Here, I think these might fit you –”

Bless it all, they’re the exact skates from 1860. Dubious platforms of wood and leather. Crowley slips off his boots and laces the skates with trembling hands. When he looks up, Aziraphale is already standing in front of him, holding out an arm.

“Shall we?”

In a daze, Crowley places a hand on his elbow and follows him out onto the ice.

He’s forgotten how to do this, and the blasted skates do not listen to his shaky unspoken threats*. Immediately he grows unsteady.

_*In fairness to the skates, they’ve had an intense couple of hours._

_Mere moments before they found themselves in a 2019 bookshop, they’d only just been set down by Crowley and Aziraphale in 1860 and were debating the finer points of their recent skating adventure. Two of them, having hosted a lovely angel with excellent manners, were of a firmly positive opinion. The other two, terrorized by a demon who had berated them for trembling with fear, were engaged in a thorough character assassination of not only their tormentor but also anyone who would willingly befriend him._

_“But they’re desperately in love with each other,” posited the skates worn by the angel._

_“That’s beside the point,” answered the others, and that was when a miracle scooped them up and catapulted them a century and a half into the future**._

_**Aziraphale, somehow, picked out the same two skates to wear in 2019 as in 1860, despite shoe sizes being less a concrete number for him and more ‘something that automatically sets itself to rights upon entrance of the foot’, so further experience has offered little to settle the argument._

Crowley's feet slip from under him and he can almost feel the impact before he falls, sure he is slithering back to his natural state, belly on the ground, limbs too bendy and wild to support him in any state of grace –

But Aziraphale is there beside him, catching him before the fall. Crowley’s arms windmill in the air for a moment and then return to clutch Aziraphale’s elbow tightly. He is trying very hard not to think too vividly of the moment he spent with nothing but Aziraphale holding him up, those impossibly _strong_ arms, keeping him safe and protected like it was nothing.

Aziraphale clucks his tongue. “Oh, my dear*, you _must_ go more slowly. Here, hold onto me. That’s it. It’s quite straightforward once you get into it. There, just push off like this…”

 _*The ‘my dear’ is relatively new; in the past, ‘my dear boy’ had been rare enough and ‘my dear’ spared only for the most unguarded of occasions. Lately, Aziraphale has been sprinkling it over their conversations like fairy dust. Hearing it now is_ not _helping Crowley recover from the problem begun by Aziraphale’s sudden display of strength._

Crowley follows him and finds muscle memory returning his lessons from 1859. Soon he is able to relax his grip on Aziraphale’s arm and lean into his side* more sedately.

 _*Maybe a bit more leaning than is strictly necessary, support-wise, but the love of his existence is so temptingly close and unsuspecting, and he_ is _a demon, after all._

“Do you remember the last time we did this?” Aziraphale asks.

Remember? As if he could forget! The last time, the first time, the only time – a memory so precious that Crowley is apparently manifesting it in unsuspecting bookshops against his own will. The last happy thought of his angel he’d had to cling to over decades of the word _fraternizing_ ringing in his ears. “Of course I do,” he says, and in the winter stillness it comes out more quiet and honest than he’d intended.

Aziraphale only clasps his hand more tightly (and yes, he has laid his right hand over Crowley’s own two, which still maintain a proprietary grip on his left elbow). “Such a beautiful day. I did so worry you’d be cold. It was lucky you were able to stay out with me.”

The day was bloody freezing, and the rest of it was torture, but Crowley does not tell him this. He does not say that the only time he felt warm all winter was that half hour with Aziraphale on his arm. Instead he says, “Better like this, though. Indoors. Something to be said for room temperature.” (He is not at room temperature, not anymore, with heat blossoming along his side where they are in contact, but he suspects that has very little to do with the room.)

He feels confident enough on his feet now to risk a glance up at Aziraphale’s face. There is a wide smile there, and Crowley barely smothers an answering smile of his own. From the soft look in Aziraphale’s eyes, he isn’t entirely sure he succeeds. He glances back down at the ice but can’t look away for long when he feels Aziraphale’s gaze still on him, bringing heat up into his cheeks.

Aziraphale isn’t looking where they’re going _at all_ , the bastard!

“When did you learn to skate like this?” Crowley asks, incredulous. Aziraphale spins around him and takes the next lap _backwards_ , pulling Crowley after him like some unusually close water skier. _Show-off_.

“Oh, I should think in the late sixteenth century. The Dutch won a battle on ice then, you know. No one expected it. They were more or less doomed and could have used a miracle, we all thought, but I didn’t end up having to lift a finger…”

Crowley blinked. “Sixteenth century? We went in the nineteenth.”

“Well, yes, but I’d been before,” Aziraphale says as if it’s obvious.

“No, you hadn’t. You wanted me to teach you. Clung to me the whole time. Needed support or you’d’ve fallen right over.”

Aziraphale blushes. “Oh, yes. Right. I must have my dates mixed up.”

Before Crowley can reply, Aziraphale spins them around again so they’re both going forward once more. Crowley nestles back into his arm like a bird under a wing. He’s speaking before he thinks: “I wonder if this would be easier with wings? Push off from the air and all.”

Aziraphale considers. “Possibly. Would you care to try?”

Crowley entertains a vision of Aziraphale’s wings around him in all their glory, close enough that he can brush against them with each stride and claim it accidental. But he quickly realizes that skating with their wings out would mean untangling their arms and separating, which is unconscionable. “Nah. This ’s good.”

An easy quiet descends upon them. The steady scrape of the skates underscores the soft sound of Aziraphale’s breath, so close beside him. When Aziraphale’s head falls gently on his shoulder, Crowley could nearly weep. It is not supposed to be possible for him to feel this content, this at peace.

Eternity must pass before they slow to a stop – this time much more than half an hour. Aziraphale takes hold of his arms and the brush of his thumbs has Crowley’s knees growing weak. “Happy December, Crowley,” he announces.

“That’s… not a thing.” Crowley wrinkles his nose for show, but inside he is just warm and utterly _besotted_.

“Well, it should be,” says Aziraphale with surprise. “So many wonderful holidays. I do think this December will be a good one, you know.” He looks conspiratorial at this last assertion, as if he has reason to know. Crowley supposes he does – they both do, their first winter to spend fully in each other’s company, free from Heaven and Hell.

“Even better than 1860,” Crowley agrees, and it already is. If this day were the whole of December, it would still be in the running for best month of his year.

Aziraphale smiles again. “It will be. You’ll see.”

Later, Crowley goes to fetch a bottle of brandy and returns to find the lake has gone. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief that his brazen unasked-for miracle, that afterimage of his yearning, has resolved itself. (He tries to ignore the stab of loss that comes along with it.)

There is no longer an excuse to lean close to Aziraphale, but when he settles into the sofa with the brandy and Aziraphale sits next to him, because sometimes they do that now (!), and he is nearly close enough to touch, near enough that as the drink takes hold Crowley’s slouch will surely reacquaint their knees –

He thinks that this, here, is all he needs. And he thinks that (now that his accidental miracle is behind them, now that _that’s_ certainly done and over with for good) it will make for an absolutely marvelous December.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert: It is not done and over with. Not by a long shot.
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘hot cocoa/cider’: What's Aziraphale's take on this? Does the universe have another miracle in store? And why does it involve going to an apple orchard and tossing soggy toast on a tree? At least they get to canoodle at a picnic for their trouble...


	2. Hot Cocoa/Cider

When it comes to making plans, Aziraphale’s luck over the centuries has been rather hit-or-miss.

“Open a bookshop,” of course, went swimmingly*. “Obtain proper French crêpes before further suffering of the English version induces a breakdown followed by madness”… less so**.

* _Due in part to the encouragement of a certain demon who lent a sympathetic ear to Aziraphale’s complaints about nomadism and the toll of varying conditions on his book collection, then said idly, “Did Gabriel ever_ tell _you that you can’t set up a home base? Or mightn’t there be suitable properties in London? Hypothetically speaking, of course,” to which Aziraphale had no reply._

_**Although it quickly turned around when said certain demon appeared looking devastatingly beautiful, released him from his chains right when Aziraphale was growing attached to the notion of maybe keeping them on for just a bit longer, and made up for it with a luncheon of delectable crêpes and even more delightful company… come to think of it, perhaps not such a bad outcome after all.._

Ordinarily he would run any scheme by Crowley, the most brilliant schemer he knows, who would poke at flaws and inject his unique demonic imagination and generally squabble about it until the details were properly ironed out. But tipping his hand about this newest plan would ruin everything before it has the chance to begin.

You see, this one is _about_ Crowley, and Aziraphale has never cared or fretted so much about a plan turning out well in all his life*.

* _“Stop Armageddon” was, arguably, a more Important plan, but the destruction of humanity never felt_ entirely _real to Aziraphale until the moment he stood before the Metatron, frightened and bereft, realizing that Crowley had seen it clearly from the beginning. And from then on things moved much too quickly to spare energy on fuss._

Day One of the plan went marvelously, in Aziraphale’s opinion. Sure, Crowley had looked lost at times, but not _unpleasantly_ so. There had been several of those soft, too-affected-to-hide, nothing-to-see-here-and-I’ll-glare-if-you-acknowledge-it smiles that Aziraphale knows and loves so well. Getting to cuddle up against Crowley’s side in the frosty air was the highlight of Aziraphale’s month, although he hopes to top it soon.

And despite the many, _many_ times Aziraphale tensed up in expectation, Crowley never confronted him about the obvious ploy. Aziraphale spent the evening dreading that Crowley would call him on it – _What do you think you’re playing at? Did you really think I’d just go along with this? Miracling up a lake, honestly, as if I’d be interested in anything like that_ – but Crowley, _miraculously_ , did not.

Aziraphale glances at the clock and sees that it’s finally a decent hour to ring Crowley and put the next phase of his plan into motion. He lifts the receiver and dials, drawing in steadying breaths and rehearsing his next lines in his head. It rings and then –

“Hi, this is Anthony Crowley.”

“Yes, I know, it’s Az –”

“You know what to do. Do it with style.”

Ah. It’s that bloody ansaphone again. There’s a beep and Aziraphale waits a full two seconds to be sure the machine is done talking at him. “Yes, hello, dear. Perhaps I’ve caught you at a bad time but I was hoping you might be interested in a picnic. There’s an orchard in Kent, you see, and I’ve heard fantastic things about their apple cider sorbet –”

There’s a click on the line and then a familiar voice: “Lunch, then? Shall I pick you up?”

Aziraphale hesitates. It _sounds_ like Crowley, and not the machine this time, but he’s been wrong before. “Is that – is that really you?”

“ _Yes_ , angel.” Crowley huffs and Aziraphale dares to imagine he sounds fond. “Just got up, I was halfway across the flat when you rang, took me a moment to get here. Can I come over now, then?”

Ridiculous, the mere _suggestion_ that Aziraphale might ever _not_ want Crowley to come over, in fact to already _be_ over, in fact to never _not_ be over again. (Sometimes Aziraphale even thinks, when he’s sure the bookshop can’t hear, that he wouldn’t mind being anywhere at all, so long as Crowley is at his side.) “If you please.”

“Right. There in a tick.” The phone clicks into silence and Aziraphale spares a thought for the poor Bentley and the devilish speeds it is certainly about to undergo*.

* _In this Aziraphale has it all wrong. If anything, the Bentley has an ever greater thirst for speed than Crowley himself, and is only kept this side of the sound barrier by a reassuring hand on its steering wheel and a soft murmured word from the demon it loves most._

Aziraphale busies himself with organizing books (never _more_ organized, just organized _differently_ ) and spreading foreboding dust to areas of the shop that look a little too welcoming. Soon the bell above the door chimes and Crowley appears in the frame, holding a picnic hamper.

“Wasn’t sure what you wanted,” Crowley says while Aziraphale is recovering from his habitual swoon upon seeing him, “so I put in a bit of everything I’ve got. Might have to supplement, if you don’t mind.”

Aziraphale beams. “Not at all! I’ve a few things put aside myself, let me fetch them –” He steps into the bookshop’s small kitchenette (really a larder with a fridge and delusions of grandeur) and returns with a closed sack of goods. It won’t do to give away the game this early. Crowley offers up the open hamper for Aziraphale to toss the sack into, which he does, knowing that Crowley gets a satisfaction out of carrying things for him and also knowing that he must never actually mention this aloud.

He locks the shop behind him and follows Crowley to the Bentley, sliding into the passenger seat with no small amount of trepidation. “Now, remember what I told you the last time. If you hit another pedestrian, I’m leaving and I shall never ride with you again.”

Crowley scoffs as he throws the car into gear. “A madwoman on a bicycle does not count as a _pedestrian_.”

“She certainly lacked the protection of a proper vehicle –” He breaks off to grip the door handle as they enter the street.

“Nah, pedestrians walk. ’S in the name, _pedest-r_ -ian – aren’t you supposed to be the one who still reads Latin?”

“Of course I do. If anything, I’m surprised _you_ remember any words from Rome – look out!”

Crowley zooms around a man in a suit* but doesn’t slow. “Please, I’ve heard the state of your French,” he mutters.

* _His name is Arnold Banks, and being interrupted on commute to his monotonous job by such a near-death experience, he will spend the day alternately crying and staring into his briefcase in a loo stall before marching to his boss’s office and quitting in a spectacular and inspiring scene. Given that he currently works at an advertisement firm making kitschy slogans for large corporations trying to disguise their subsidiaries as quaint family-owned businesses, his exit might seem to be a victory for the forces of Heaven. He will, however, consequently change his name to Banger Hardrock and join an inexplicably popular band touring the world on poor Rolling Stones covers and unholy mash-ups of pub rock with Eurobeat, resulting (as far as Heaven and Hell are concerned with the matter) in a no-score draw._

Aziraphale bites down a comment about using miracles to cheat on language-learning and forces himself to relax his hand from the door. A glance to the picnic hamper on the backseat* reminds him of the day ahead and the fight goes out of him. Surely he can suffer through Crowley’s driving for one trip if it’s what makes Crowley happy? Crowley, who deserves the world and more, who needs to know that Aziraphale is ready now to pay attention to his needs and prove his ardor and give what he can in return for everything Crowley has given him…

* _(a sight that gives Crowley a particularly vivid flashback of which Aziraphale is unaware)_

Crowley somehow clips through a corner without touching the sidewalk, close enough to a lady walking her dog that when she screams Aziraphale could, if so inclined, see to count her teeth.

That’s _it_. “Crowley, Heaven forfend, if this car so much as _touches_ another person while in motion, I don’t care if they’re on _horseback_ , I shall be done with this car forever, I shall start taking the _Tube_ , and I will _force you to come with me_.”

At this Crowley grimaces and eases up on the throttle. The speed is still supernatural, but it’s enough of a concession for Aziraphale to sit back (self-satisfied expression in full force) and quiet down. A full minute passes before Crowley speaks again: “I suppose if they’re on horseback they’re having a miserable enough time of it already,” and a tiny lift of his lips informs Aziraphale that he doesn’t mind the protests at all.

They make it to the orchard in one piece (or rather, two pieces, being two separate entities, however much Aziraphale might sometimes feel they are mere halves of some transcendental whole). As soon as they come within sight of the trees, Crowley’s gaze sharpens discerningly, and Aziraphale slips away to obtain goods from the orchard shop before things get out of hand.

When he returns, Crowley is leaning on an apple tree with one long arm, using the other to poke accusingly at its trunk. He continues with vehemence, “… and from such a useless specimen! I know trees that would give their _roots_ for a set-up as cushy as this, and look at you squandering it. You think you can slack off just because it’s winter? I swear to Someone I will come back here and make sure you never see another spring unless you straighten yourself out right quick! And don’t think I won’t chop you down and feed you through a –”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale puts in mildly, and Crowley immediately drops the tirade to look up at him. It makes Aziraphale’s heart clench painfully. How strange it is to know (oh, but he has always known) that Crowley will drop anything for him at the slightest hint, will give whatever it takes to follow his requests, will undertake a massive restructuring of plans just to acquire something Aziraphale cooed at once in a shop window*.

* _That Aziraphale keeps every one of these treasured gifts, some out in the shop but the more damning examples locked away in a trunk under his rarely used bed, does little to make up for it. He hoards evidence of Crowley in his history like a dragon, an outlet for all the truths he could not let spill over into the world at large. It has not yet occurred to Aziraphale that there’s no reason to hide these objects any longer… but not to worry. It will soon._

They select a spot for the picnic (after a short delay to argue about the prevalence of ants in different varieties of grass, segueing into speculation over whether ants hibernate, which Crowley eventually solves by declaring that they must do – except in the case of fire ants which, by their very nature, are surely not affected by the cold). Once the food is laid out on the blanket, they settle into adjacent corners and dig in.

“Sorbet in winter, angel? Really?” Crowley asks towards the end of the meal, having rolled over onto his back, shoulder just barely pressed to Aziraphale’s knee. His face is visible, golden eyes and all, just to the left of the plate Aziraphale holds on his lap. His sunglasses lie abandoned on the other side of the blanket.

Aziraphale cannot tell him the real reason – that the signature dish of this orchard was only a convenient excuse to lure him here. He settles for a fact that is unrelated but true: “They have thousands of jars from the harvest to turn into foodstuffs before spring. It’s just as good as in the summer, you know, there’s no need for the apples themselves to be fresh.”

“Yeah, but it’s _cold_. You’d eat ice cream in a blizzard if it came highly recommended. Wouldn’t you?”

Crowley is lying close enough for Aziraphale to feel his warm breath on his thigh. It occurs to Aziraphale that he could lean forward and kiss him – abandon the feast and join him there on the ground, press close to him and mingle their breaths together, hold him until it gets dark and then keep him there under the stars until Crowley’s restless heartbeat calms, until he’s sure Crowley knows he’ll never have to be alone again.

Instead he reaches out and lightly brushes his thumb across Crowley’s cheek, settling his fingers in his hair. He must be careful. He watches, ready to pull away – Crowley’s eyes are wide but show no sign of unenjoyment – Aziraphale runs the fingers along his scalp, experimenting, and is rewarded when the eyelids flutter closed.

“Are you cold, Crowley?” he asks, voice a low murmur, hoping not to break the spell he’s only just beginning to cast.

“Nnnn. Nah. Warm here.” One eye cracks back open. “You? Belly filled up with freezing sorbet and all?”

Aziraphale smiles with as much extra warmth as he can, just in case. “Not cold in the least.” He continues to stroke the wavy red hair, captivated by it as always and selfishly grateful that Crowley has let it grow out since summer. He loves Crowley in all his forms, of course, but will admit to a soft spot for the long gorgeous tumble down his back that he first saw in the Garden and first missed when it was shorn in Rome. Right now it’s long enough to keep in a bun again, and maybe it will continue to grow, maybe it will never stop until Crowley is a veritable Lady Godiva* with hair of merlot, and Aziraphale can comb it out and braid it here in the grass. There’s something charming about how Crowley lets it grow the slow, human way.

* _Aziraphale only met the Lady in person once or twice, but by all accounts she and Crowley got on like a house on fire._

He brushes the last crumbs from his trousers and then, after a long moment of consideration, clasps his unoccupied hand around Crowley’s upper arm, rubbing a thumb there as well. Crowley’s eyes ease open and he stares at Aziraphale, all expression having flown from his face. He looks stripped down and pliable, vulnerable, and as their gaze holds his mouth does a little tilt of uncertainty, a question flitting into his brows. Aziraphale prays* he is reading it right: trust and pleasure and _is this okay?_ ; he responds by tangling the one hand further into his hair and pressing the other closer into his arm, radiating reassurance. Finally the uncertain crook of Crowley’s mouth gives way to the smallest unguarded smile.

* _Aziraphale does still pray, sometimes, maybe more than he did during the centuries prior, when most of his one-sided communications with God consisted of “Are you listening?” and “Is this the Plan?” and “I will do anything you want of me, just please, tell me you won’t hurt him.” After Armageddon’t he tried a period of silence on principle, but found himself sending up small thoughts Her way – mostly fervent thanks for every moment with Crowley, every time his heart fills to bursting with it, every evening that he can scarcely believe he gets to_ have _this, he gets to_ keep _this, and neither Heaven nor Hell nor God Herself will be able to save anyone who tries to take it away from him._

Because here’s the thing:

For all that they are free now, and together, where they belong, Crowley has been pulling away from his touch.

He first noticed it after their celebratory lunch at the Ritz. There was a moment, in the doorway of the bookshop, when he was _sure_ they would kiss. They were going in for a nightcap anyway, but paused in the frame – midway between the cozy indoors and the outside fresh air – and their gazes caught and held. Seconds ticked by and Aziraphale felt warmth prickle all through him from Crowley’s undivided attention. Crowley’s lips parted as if he were about to speak, but he said nothing, and Aziraphale couldn’t help glancing down at the mouth he longed to capture with his own. His mind went instinctively to its habitual repression – to tamp down the feelings and desires he could never quite grind to dust – but then he remembered that they were free. And he remembered that he’d spent every moment since they swapped back to their own bodies looking for an opening, the perfect time to take a step across that old never-broken line and sweep Crowley up in his arms to never let him go.

He was so sure the moment had arrived. And he was sure everything must be written in his eyes, love and devotion shining as bright as a flaming sword or a star – he had never been skilled at deceiving others, and he was as bad at lying to Crowley as he was good at lying to himself. Finally, he _wanted_ it to show. No more hiding. No more caution. He leaned forward and felt Crowley’s fingers brush his own –

And Crowley broke away before Aziraphale could close the gulf between them. _“Sorry, just remembered, ah –”_ He danced backward on spindly legs back onto the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, shuffling awkwardly, looking anywhere but at Aziraphale. _“I’ve got to go – walk the plants – water!”_ His eyes snapped up to Aziraphale’s and then darted away. _“Water the plants, can’t have them, ehh, drying out – great lunch, though – I’ll, uh, I’ll see you?”_

_“Yes, come see me soon,”_ Aziraphale said faintly. _“Or I’ll come to you –”_ Crowley had already turned and was walking away with a raise of his hand above his head, a final farewell. If it weren’t for the blush high on Crowley’s cheeks, Aziraphale might have felt slighted; as it was, he only felt pitying (and a little bit thwarted). He _knew_ what this was like. The nerves, the flush, the sudden push to put distance between them in any way possible - he’d done this dance for years, and Crowley had always been so patient for him. It made sense that Crowley would be skittish in the aftermath of their final confrontation with Heaven and Hell. After millennia of not being allowed to have this, it did feel strange for all the barriers to fall away in one afternoon. Maybe he just needed time.

Crowley has always been patient for Aziraphale. Aziraphale can be patient for Crowley.

It didn’t end there. In the ensuing days, Aziraphale made sure to reach out as often as possible, never to put up that cold wall of distance he’d used to hurt Crowley before. After so many years of reaching alone, Crowley _deserved_ for someone else to do the pursuing. He allowed some of it, clearly _enjoying_ it, but there was always a point where he would pull away and alight on some arbitrary new subject with a wild look in his eyes. Aziraphale didn’t push him. He wanted to say without words: _I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, take your time, and when you can believe it, I am ready for you, always_.

He wanted to say it _with_ words, too, but if anything, Crowley was even worse about conversation than about touch.

_“Crowley, my dear*, I know how strange it is to be out from under the threat of Heaven – or Hell, that is. And I wanted to say – that is, I wanted to mention that, whatever our relationship may be, if you have thoughts you wish to tell me –”_ That was as far as he got before Crowley interrupted with a loud comment about a nearby bookshelf and exited the room as soon as possible.

* _He’d discovered that both_ ‘dear’ _and_ ‘mine’ _, particularly together, elicited that pleased and blushing reaction without ever being pushed away, and resolved to use it as often as possible. He was developing an intense attachment to every way Crowley would let him show affection. Sometimes he grew dizzy with it, the amount of love spilling out of him with only a few careful paths to take._ My dear _tasted like a decadent use of freedom and he found it impossible to stay his tongue, or even to want to._

_Relationship_ as a word seemed to make Crowley flinch away, so Aziraphale abandoned it and tried new tactics. It didn’t matter to him if Crowley wanted to define things a different way. (Well, it mattered in that Aziraphale yearned desperately for as many definitions as he would allow, for as many committing words as he could collect and gather from the humans to throw upon Crowley like a glimmering veil of devotion, but he would survive either way.) And as for the kissing, well – Aziraphale admitted he might be wrong about that particular dimension being an option, but he had quite a lot of evidence from over the millennia to suggest Crowley’s hunger for him was just as strong*. Even if he was wrong, that wouldn’t break anything either (although it would require a heroic amount of self-control on Aziraphale’s part and some truly creative uses of alone time, were he to refrain from acting on his own desire).

* _There were the Looks, of course, and a certain amount of hovering, and a subconscious reaction of Crowley’s that involved flicking his tongue over his lips in a truly salacious manner. There was the audacious flirting in that low, sinful tone of voice that gave way to astonished, disorganized consonants when Aziraphale responded in kind. And if Aziraphale played into it on occasion, trailed his eyes down Crowley’s form, laced his speech with just-this-side-of-plausibly-deniable innuendo, bared stretches of skin along his wrist or throat just to see Crowley’s reaction – well, who could blame him? Anyone would become addicted to having such an effect on someone who was themselves so devastatingly and brain-meltingly attractive._

What Aziraphale wanted most was to be able to hold Crowley and to tell him how much he loved him, how highly he regarded him and in such great esteem, how absolutely perfect he was in Aziraphale’s eyes. There needn’t even be anything in return. Crowley’s company was enough, his closeness, his fondness and his teasing and his unshakeable support. Aziraphale simply needed Crowley to _know_ how loved he was, and to accept it after so many centuries (and God, wasn’t this Aziraphale’s fault too?) thinking himself unlovable.

The nearest he ever got to the truth was in the park one summer evening. They sat on the bench under a lovely sunset and Aziraphale turned to Crowley, allowing all the softness in his heart to shine through in his eyes. _“I hope you know how much you matter to me. I know it’s not always what you want to hear, but I do hope that in time you’ll allow me to tell you. I don’t know where I’d be without you. And I hope you know, my dear, that I care about you very much.”_

Crowley stared at him, brows lifting above his glasses. Not for the first time, Aziraphale cursed the darkness of the lenses and what they conspired to hide. _“Yeah, I – yeah.”_ For once, Crowley wasn’t blushing under the affection. If anything, he looked – pale? Aziraphale frowned just a little, waiting to see if he would elaborate on his response. _“It’s all – it’s all good.”_ And then he was standing up. Aziraphale’s heart sank. _“I should – be getting back. Have a good night, angel.”_

It really did seem like Crowley was making eye contact behind the lenses, and he stared for an intense moment before turning and walking away. Aziraphale exhaled and leaned back on the bench, not sure what to make of this. At least he’d been able to say it, and Crowley had heard it, and his next words had been semi-related instead of a sudden tangent on the dietary habits of swans. Maybe this was a good thing. A step in the right direction, as it were.

That was, until Crowley didn’t return his calls for the next week.

When he finally slunk into the bookshop nine days hence, he did look a little sheepish, but combative at the same time in a way only he could manage. _“Slept through it,”_ he said before Aziraphale could speak. _“Won’t happen again, promise.”_ And he glared as if daring Aziraphale to say anything about it.

If that was the reaction garnered by _I care about you_ … Aziraphale couldn’t risk an _I love you_. Not yet. Not if it lost him Crowley for a month or a year. He would have to continue with the subtle side of things, reaching out and proving his commitment day by day. Building a foundation of trust on which to place his raw and beating heart when it was finally Crowley’s time to consume it.

He had to prepare himself for the possibility that it could take years. That it could – and the sheer pain of thinking this was indescribable, but still – that it could be too late; that Aziraphale had pushed him away for too long and Crowley was too bruised and resenting to take the chance. Aziraphale imagined the words, time and time again: _I don’t want you. Not anymore._ Or _It won’t work. I can’t do it._

Aziraphale told himself he would survive it, if only he could make his own feelings clear, if only Crowley would believe him. (Aziraphale had told himself worse lies.) So he chose his words with care, and touched him slowly, giving him plenty of time to see it coming, like someone trying not to spook a horse*.

* _Not that Crowley would ever admit to having a single thing in common with horses – nor would Aziraphale dare to say so aloud._

Now, sitting on a picnic blanket with Crowley relaxed and pliant between his hands, Aziraphale feels it’s safe to take the next step in his demonstration.

The pulse of a quick miracle and something appears in the middle of the blanket, behind Crowley’s head. Aziraphale glances at it and tries not to give it all away in his expression.

“Oh, would you look at that,” he says, and feels it not particularly convincing.

Crowley turns and some complex struggle seems to happen in his face.

_Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it_ , Aziraphale pleads, _it’s all right, just let it be._ “Doesn’t it look familiar?”

The object in question is a large wooden bowl with a wide base, almost too big to handle even with two hands. Filling it is a sweet mulled cider, warm enough to heat the air around it, wafting the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg out into the dusk.

Crowley only stares at it, unmoving. _Oh, please remember,_ Aziraphale thinks, realizing suddenly that he might _not_ , and that he couldn’t even be blamed for it. Still, it would be a shame, and Aziraphale can only hope desperately –

“Jersey*,” says Crowley suddenly, voice strained. “The wassail.”

* _This, of course, meaning the island off the coast of Normandy, and not its much-maligned younger American cousin._

Aziraphale grins. “Yes! Wonderful orchards there. That was, what, 1630? 40?”

“Was after all that business with Charles the Second. Not the 1650s, though, I was off with Cromwell by then…”

“Call it 1649.”

Crowley is still watching the bowl as if he’s seen a ghost. Or a scorpion about to strike. Or maybe the ghost of a scorpion. “I wouldn’t – I don’t know why it’s here, angel, really, I –”

Well, it won’t do for him to _ask._ “No matter. What was it you were saying to these trees? That they really ought to have a good harvest next year?”

Now Crowley’s stare turns to _him_ , which may or may not be an improvement. “You’re not suggesting…”

“Well, since it’s here,” Aziraphale says, folding his hands in his lap with his best attempt at a poker face.

A slow smile spreads across Crowley’s face. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So you’re saying you won’t?”

“Didn’t say that.” Crowley pokes the bowl, which sloshes a little but doesn’t dare spill onto the blanket. “You really want to do this?”

“I think it would be nice,” says Aziraphale, and then second-guesses his choice of words, but Crowley has no negative reaction. He just nods slowly.

“You remember what to do?”

“I think you’ll need to pick out the finest tree. I wouldn’t have a clue where to start.”

As expected, Crowley seems to like that. He turns in a slow circle and surveys the options. “None of this lot. Walk with me though and I’ll find you the least _terrible_ option, at least.”

Aziraphale stands to go after him but stops abruptly: “Oh, and the toast, of course.” He removes the closed sack from the hamper and pulls it open, revealing a dozen toast slices. Crowley considers him. Aziraphale feels himself reddening, sure he’s about to be called out.

“No, can’t forget the toast. Miracle toast. Quick with it, aren’t you?” Crowley walks on and Aziraphale follows, grateful he’s not going to pressure him about the bread that’s clearly been there since London.

As they make their way through the orchard, Crowley muttering venom at each tree he rejects, Aziraphale feels like he’s stepping back in time.

Crowley looked different then, of course. Drifting about the orchard with long hair and a longer dress, a beautiful lace collar skimming just under her sharp collarbones. Aziraphale hadn’t expected to come across her, that Twelfth Night, planning to slip past the drunken revelers without detection. But as soon as he saw Crowley there was no chance of him walking away.

She was laughing with the humans, perhaps a little tipsy herself but nothing compared to some of the others. In her hands was a large wooden – chalice, or bowl, or something. Impractical for one person alone, but strange to be out here and now with a serving dish. He approached and schooled his fond smile into something more appropriate. _“Crowley?”_ he called out, and she turned immediately, face broadening into a smile of her own. Always so open, never as careful as he was. _Not my friend_ , he struggled to remember, not because he believed it, but because he needed the words there on the tip of his tongue in case a human was dangerous enough to imply otherwise.

_“Angel,”_ she said. _“C’mon, you’ve_ got _to try some.”_ She held out the bowl in both hands and he leaned forward, grasping it to tilt for a sip. There wasn’t enough room on it for all four hands to remain apart, and when his fingers brushed her wrists, he thought neither of them could be to blame.

_“It’s cider,”_ he said in surprise, warm and sweet, and he took another sip before he could stop himself, this one longer.

_“We’re convincing the trees to behave next year.”_ Crowley smirked and pointed to one of the humans, who brandished a fistful of toast.

_“But we’ve lost our King,”_ the human lamented. Others nodded along with him.

Crowley nodded in sympathy. Then her eyebrows shot up. She looked Aziraphale up and down, appraising, and he felt heat rising in response. An unnecessary reaction that he pushed down immediately without further examination. _“We may have lost George to distraction,”_ she said slowly, _“but I think I’ve found our King.”_

_“Who’s this, then?”_ another human asked.

Crowley shot them an imperious look. _“This, of course, is your true Wassail King. Unless you would question the choice of your Queen?”_

A few of the others laughed. One took a bite of cider-soaked toast. _“We’d never question you, Crowley, we know better by now.”_

Somehow Aziraphale ended up at the head of the party, walking closely enough beside Crowley that their shoulders brushed with every other stride. Behind them, the humans slung around toast and cider, made an awful racket with random objects in their possession, and argued about best practices. Aziraphale barely heard any of it.

_“What exactly is this meant to do?”_ he murmured for Crowley’s ears only.

_“What are they always meant to do? Good harvest. Right up there with ‘return of the sun’ for winter revelry.”_

_“Does it work?”_

Mirth danced across her face. _“I don’t think plants have much use for toast. ’m not sold on bribery, myself, seems like threats are more in order, but ’s not like you can yell at a tree.* Humans seem to like it, though.”_

* _A certain fad would not reach Crowley until the 1970s, when he would emerge from a Radio Four broadcast with a look of dawning determination and immediately purchase two ferns and an enormous pot of devil’s ivy._

They reached a tall tree and stopped – evidently this was their destination. They anointed it with more cider and then suddenly were lifting Crowley into the air; she showed no surprise, only delight as they brought her high into the branches. Aziraphale went back and forth on whether he was supposed to be helping, eventually deciding it would be rude not to and joining the group in time to manage a grip on her ankle. (There, too, the bone was sharp, the skin over it soft and lovely.) Toast was passed up to her, where she soaked it in the bowl and set it along the branches. Everyone seemed to quiet down expectantly and Aziraphale had only a moment to wonder why before her voice molded itself into a song.

That song stays with Aziraphale now, centuries later, and he can almost hear it in the air, the words long lost to him. Ahead, Crowley stops beneath a large tree and jabs its trunk with one finger.

“Suppose it’ll do,” he says, and bares his teeth as he hisses further: “This is a high honor, d’you hear? Don’t ssssscrew it up.”

Aziraphale fights down a laugh and brings the toast over to the bowl to dip it in. Crowley’s expression does something strange.

“Ah, angel? Not sure we thought this through.”

This affronts Aziraphale, who spent more time thinking this through than he would ever care to admit. “What do you mean?”

Crowley glances up at the high branches. “Can’t reach from here. And we don’t exactly have a crowd with us this time.”

Now he’s bordering on offense. “Please, Crowley, you don’t _need_ a crowd, you have a _Principality_.” Without giving Crowley a chance to snark back, Aziraphale sweeps him off the ground (one arm under the back, one arm under the knees, safe as houses) and lifts him up to sit on his shoulder.

Crowley makes a _very_ strange noise.

“Are you all right? Oh, I nearly forgot,” Aziraphale says. He presses a piece of cidered toast into Crowley’s hand.

“…thanksssss, angel.”

One slice at a time, they maneuver the toast up into the branches of the tree. (Early on they realize it doesn’t make much sense for Crowley to balance the bowl up high, and passing it back down to Aziraphale is something of an endeavor, but it works out in the end.) Crowley has a tendency to wobble, even as Aziraphale compensates fluidly; at one point his non-toast hand comes to rest on the back of Aziraphale’s neck and stays there. This causes what is almost the greatest break in Aziraphale’s concentration yet* as lithe fingers tickle the bottom of his hair, pads smooth against his skin.

* _The greatest break, of course, being a tie between each time Aziraphale turns his head sideways and is reminded that his face is right next to Crowley’s hip, the urge to nose along it almost overpowering, stopped mainly by the clear vision of how Crowley would yelp and fall and, knowing him, almost certainly end up with some absurd injury._

Eventually they run out of toast. Aziraphale sets down the wassail bowl so he can reach up, grip Crowley around the middle, and slide him back down to the ground. He has every intention of releasing him immediately, but once he’s standing there with Crowley in front of him, he lingers. Crowley looks back at him with wide eyes, similarly breathless. (There are many possible reasons for him to be out of breath. In Aziraphale’s case, they are all true at once.) Finally Crowley busies himself tugging his jacket back into alignment; Aziraphale lets go to do the same with his own.

He picks up the wassail bowl again and offers it to Crowley, who takes it and splashes more cider along the roots of the tree. Aziraphale looks up at the toast in the branches and smiles, imagining the humans finding it there the next morning. He could miracle it away at the end of the night, but he doesn’t think he will. It’s an orchard – surely they’ll be familiar with the old traditions.

They step back and regard the tree together. “I’m not shooting a rifle,” Crowley says. “Too bloody loud.”

“No,” Aziraphale agrees. He hesitates, then: “I wish we still had the words to that carol. I suppose there’s always the English ones, although I hear they’re mangling the lyrics now on the radio –”

“Hmm,” says Crowley, and he seems to make a decision. He glances at Aziraphale, then studiously away.

And then he sings.

His voice is smooth and low, enchanting in the dusk, and it is – it _is_ – the same song from all those years ago. Something in Jèrriais – Aziraphale doesn’t know the meaning of the words and he doesn’t need to, doesn’t waste a miracle translating when the understanding cuts past language and into his bones. The sound is beautiful and haunting, carrying over the orchard and away into the horizon.

Aziraphale would never tell him, but the sound is ethereal.

When the last verse dies away, Aziraphale cannot help but lift a hand to Crowley’s face in wonder, where he can rest his wrist on his shoulder and brush a thumb across his cheek. “How in – how did you…”

Crowley ducks his head a little. “You pick up a few tunes through the centuries. Suppose I got enough practice in singing this one to Warlock, the words stuck.”

That doesn’t quite cover the fact that Crowley remembered it for all the years between 1649 and 2013 before there was any excuse for rehearsal. Aziraphale smiles, mind filling with memories of Crowley’s lullabies for Warlock, snippets Aziraphale would catch passing by open doors and garden paths no matter how Crowley tried to hide them in the darkness. “You know your voice is lovely, my dear.”

“Shut up.” Crowley blushes and looks off into the distance but doesn’t pull away, which Aziraphale counts as a victory. He takes the hand from Crowley’s cheek and slings it further across his shoulders, turning back to look at the apple tree. Crowley leans a little into his side, and then further as Aziraphale opens his arm more to encourage the motion.

“We’ll have to come back next year, see if it’s a good harvest,” says Aziraphale.

“Oh, it had better be, if they know what’s good for them,” Crowley tells the trees darkly, and Aziraphale huffs a light laugh into his hair. Just enough pressure to feel like a kiss without frightening Crowley away.

“I’m sure you’ve terrified them into submission.”

Crowley takes this as high praise, like Aziraphale knew he would.

When they finally begin the long walk back to the Bentley, Aziraphale snaps subtly to do away with the bowl behind them – the last thing they need is historians losing their minds over how and why such an old artefact appeared here and now.

They do stop and get cocoa from the orchard shop, which miraculously has not yet closed; Crowley teases Aziraphale for his rainbow sprinkles and mountain of whipped cream but watches him drink with a smile, then offers up the rest of his spiced cinnamon version. (“You’ve only had two sips,” Aziraphale protests, but he doesn’t protest very hard or long, because they both know how this goes.)

Crowley’s driving is much easier to handle on the open roads outside of London, and it lulls Aziraphale, who watches trees blur by out the window and thinks how he could almost understand the appeal of sleep.

When Crowley drops Aziraphale at the bookshop, his eyelids are clearly drooping in the driver’s seat. _Come in, sleep here, I want you to wake up with me, I want to see you in the morning and every morning for the rest of forever,_ Aziraphale thinks but does not say. Instead he says: “I have a shipment coming in tomorrow. Could be a lot to organize.” (He does, but that’s beside the point. They both know it’s a thinly veiled excuse for Crowley’s company; only Aziraphale knows that it’s an excuse for much more, this December.)

“Mm, well maybe I’ll drop by,” Crowley offers in that _tone_ he does, coffee-dark, not-quite-mocking, honestly sounding more flirtatious than anything, although Aziraphale doesn’t think it’s conscious.

“Don’t doze off on the way home, now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Crowley waves a hand and pulls back out into the sedate nighttime traffic. Aziraphale watches him go until he’s out of sight, then turns to the bookshop door. Lots to do, in his plan to win over his serpent. It’s only the second day, but Aziraphale is optimistic. Already there is a sweet closeness blooming that he hopes will stay and grow. He owes all this to Crowley, this careful slowness and so much more – to handle gently the most important thing in his existence, the center of his universe.

By the end of the year, he will say it, and Crowley will believe it. Will believe he is loved. And isn’t that a bit what the winter holidays are for? Love lighting up the endless night – beacons to tide humanity over until the cold recedes. A flame in the darkness.

Aziraphale will love, bright, unflinching, unwavering, for as long as it takes and beyond. Every day, he will coax from the fabric of time a new miracle, a new gift until Crowley can see it as plainly as his own name. He will be fierce in his steady devotion. That’s what Crowley deserves, after all. That and so much more.

He deserves a truly miraculous December.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one ended up long because Aziraphale had a LOT to say for himself re: why he doesn’t just kiss his boyfriend already
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘candy cane’: shenanigans abound in 1670 as the boys attempt to help out a choirmaster, fail spectacularly at making candy, and accidentally invent a classic Christmas treat. Meanwhile, in 2019, candy canes are inappropriately eroticized and Crowley comes to an important realization about the nature of the miracles… which is not to say the realization is _true_.


	3. Candy Canes

Crowley enters the bookshop around noon, takes a look at Aziraphale’s desk, and promptly turns around and leaves the establishment entirely.

There were candy canes on the desk, and the image haunts him as he leans against the wall of the neighboring building. All-white candy canes with bows of distinctive spotted twine in the cup where Aziraphale’s pens are supposed to be. Suspiciously _familiar_ candy canes, although he hasn’t thought of them in years.

He groans and _thunk_ s his head back against the cement.

It isn’t over. First the lake, then the wassail bowl, and now this – objects pulled from memories of his time being completely and transparently gone for Aziraphale, showing up without so much as a _by your leave_ and betraying the feelings he has worked so hard to hide.

Aziraphale is going to know. How could he not? He’ll see how precious Crowley holds these memories, how they burn bright enough in his conscience that they’re spilling over into the outside world and manifesting freely. It’s an infestation of holiday cheer, is what it is. He is being haunted by a tinsel-trimmed nightmare.

And as soon as Aziraphale sees that, he’ll step back and his eyes will go all sad and he’ll explain to Crowley that _Oh, I’m flattered, my dear, it’s just that I don’t see you that way, you understand,_ and he’ll stand that much further away from Crowley and withdraw to the days when they were colleagues and nothing more. He’ll be nice about it, of course. Aziraphale is never _cruel_ to him (a few choice lines from their history notwithstanding, but those were extenuating circumstances). He’ll let him down gently, and then it will always hover between them, the specter of the disparity in their feelings drawn like a veil between them.

At least the way it is now, Crowley is the only one plagued with the knowledge of that disparity. He’d like to keep it that way.

He storms back to his flat and sleeps for two more hours, then whiles away another hour reprimanding the plants and drafting alarmingly specific flyers to stuff in the postboxes of city councillors. Finally it feels like it’s been long enough that if the blasted candy canes are going to vanish on their own, they will have done. It’s possible. The lake and the bowl were both gone within three hours, and although he knows he shouldn’t get his hopes up, he lets himself think (on his way back over) that maybe this will be the solution. He starts to get a good feeling about it as he parks the Bentley in a no-parking zone and jumps out onto the street. He eases open the door to the bookshop with bated breath and slips in.

The candied nightmares are still there.

So is Aziraphale.

His face brightens on seeing Crowley, and Crowley can’t maintain the cloud of despair around him with that in front of him. He smiles in spite of himself.

“Crowley! You came!” says Aziraphale, as if there had been any doubt he would.

“Hello, angel,” Crowley replies. “How’s the shipment?”

Aziraphale scrunches his brow for a moment in thought. _You bastard,_ thinks Crowley fondly, _we both know you haven’t touched a single book yet._ “Well… I thought I’d wait. In case you wanted to help me.”

Crowley chuckles. “I live to serve.*”

* _Luckily, he throws it out flippantly before he has time to think about what he’s saying. If he ever had to speak that sentence to Aziraphale on purpose, pre-meditated, and_ not _let on how fervently and mortifyingly true it is, he would probably discorporate._

Aziraphale should move over to the newly arrived boxes, but he hesitates. Crowley waits and watches closely to see why. Ah – the blue/grey/green/mystery eyes flicker over to the desk just briefly, presumably by accident. He’s already seen the candy canes, then. Well. Of _course_ he’s already seen the candy canes. They rather stand out. What, did Crowley think they would go unnoticed?

He sighs. Best to get this over with. “What are those?” He makes a vague, perfunctory gesture in their general direction.

If he had any hope that the resemblance was coincidental, that these are modern candy canes that happen to share a color scheme and a wrapping with those past, it vanishes when he sees Aziraphale’s expression. “Ah, yes. Aren’t they interesting? I remember something like them in the past, you know. I believe their color was your doing.”

This briefly drives all other concerns from his head, and he gapes. “ _My_ doing? In what _universe_ was that _my_ doing? You’re the one who turned them into bloody Easter eggs, all I did was fix the mess _you_ made –”

Aziraphale seems equally miffed, which is just wrong, because he’s wrong. “I only attempted to make them without _cheating_ , knowing the _whole time_ it could be fixed with a miracle if need be, and when it came down to it you said – what was it? Ah, yes, _Let me take care of it_ , and this was the result!” He thrusts an accusing arm out at the candy canes, which sit there innocently, as if they’re fooling anyone as to their true demonic nature. (Well, Crowley hopes they’re fooling Aziraphale, but they won’t fool him. _Not today._ )

“Oh, I’m sorry, should I have left them in that state? Did you want to see that man’s face when he clapped eyes on those monstrosities?”

Aziraphale sighs, sounding much more put-upon that he has a right to. “Well, I suppose it all turned out for the best.” He pauses. “They did rather take off, didn’t they?” Just like that, there’s a conspiratorial gleam in his eye that has Crowley smiling in spite of himself.

“Hmm. A bit. Can’t take credit for the stripes, though. That was humans all the way.”

“Don’t you think we should try them?” Aziraphale asks, plucking two out of the cup and holding one out to Crowley. Crowley watches and is thrown back to the last time they stood like this, some three hundred and fifty years ago…

_“He wants me to make_ more _of these,”_ Aziraphale said, standing there in the kitchen of the rectory. They had met up in Cologne, Germany, 1670, charged by their Head Offices with very definite aims for the church in question. The orders had come too late to Arrange and they’d met there by surprise. Crowley was pleased – it was always easier to handle church assignments when he could ask Aziraphale to nip inside and do anything that needed done on the consecrated portion of the grounds.

Crowley examined the item held out before him. It was a strange, lumpy, brownish-colored stick. _“Pray tell, what is_ that _?”_

 _“Largely sugar,”_ Aziraphale replied morosely. _“Barely any flavor at all. He thinks they’ll keep the children quiet during service.”_

_“Keep them quiet for the service, sure. After? When the sugar gets into their blood? Little monsters, all of them.”_

_“I don’t think he cares.”_ Aziraphale sighed. _“And he asked if I can make them in colors, which is all well and good, but just look at what I have to work with!”_

Crowley obligingly looked over the overcrowded counter, which featured a truly pitiful array of culinary odds and ends. He was pretty sure that when Aziraphale took on the guise of cook, he hadn’t expected any actual food preparation to be involved. But the assignment had dragged on and they were both needing to play their roles more than intended. What he _should_ have done was convince Aziraphale to take over both assignments, or at least offer to do so himself – that was what the Arrangement dictated. But he was enjoying it entirely too much, working in the same space as Aziraphale, getting to see him for days on end and at all hours. He wondered if Aziraphale liked it, too, given that neither of them had yet broached the topic of stopping.

Aziraphale tossed the example stick back onto the counter with a sigh. Crowley thought hard.

_“Barely any flavor, eh? Did he say you can’t change it?”_

_“He didn’t say much of anything.”_ Aziraphale looked up at him now with cautious hope. _“You have an idea, then?”_

 _“Let’s see, you’ve got…”_ Crowley’s fingers skittered over the ingredients as he searched for something decent. No, no, _definitely_ not… oh, now _there_ was something… _“What about this?”_

 _“Mint?”_ The expression on Aziraphale’s face was one Crowley knew well*: it said _I don’t know if I like it, but I don’t_ not _, let me get used to it and we’ll see_.

* _He’d_ had _to learn the expression well, because before he understood it it had seemed more like a hesitation borne of rejection, and there was only so much of that his nerves could take without crumbling._

 _“Peppermint.”_ He proffered it proudly and Aziraphale took it.

 _“You know… that_ is _an idea.”_

Aziraphale busied himself melting sugar into the kettle* while Crowley tried to slow his heart, which always raced when Aziraphale addressed him in that admiring tone. It was pitiful, the hoops he’d jump through for the faintest praise from his angel, but he’d long ago resigned himself to the truth and decided he might as well embrace it.

* _It probably shouldn’t have worked to mix actual whole mint leaves into the sugar, but it occurred to neither of them that such a thing was normally achieved through an extracted flavoring. They both expected the process to result in an evenly peppermint-flavored sugar product, and so that is precisely what it did._

The next batch tasted decent, which Crowley found out the hard* way. Aziraphale selected one and popped the end into his mouth, pink lips wrapping around the stem as he sucked out the flavor. He didn’t make any of the appreciative noises that so often did Crowley in, which was just as well, because Crowley was pretty sure his own involuntary whimper had been loud enough for the both of them.

* _Indecently so._

Aziraphale held one out for Crowley to try – luckily for Crowley’s frayed nerves, not the same one – and Crowley gave it a lick. He imagined Aziraphale’s eyes lingered on his serpentine tongue, but that was almost certainly wishful thinking. _“Not bad,”_ he said finally. _“So. Color.”_

Color proved to be the difficult part of the afternoon. It soon grew hot in the room despite the cold outside, and their usual good-natured bickering turned a bit more tetchy as the day progressed. They ran out of space on the counter and started laying the sticks to cool on windowsills, on furniture, even on a brick previously used as a doorstop. Aziraphale went through the various colorings and dyes and eventually seemed to settle on ‘some of everything,’ despite Crowley’s protests. _“I’m making patterns,”_ Aziraphale told him, combining the different hues of sugar with a careful hand, but the designs lasted only minutes before the rolling and cooling process merged them into unholy swirls of clashing colors that weren’t even suitable for human sight, let alone church service.

Eventually Crowley got into the fun of it and started making awful patterns of his own, to Aziraphale’s dismay.

 _“What are you_ doing _, Crowley, will you please take this seriously?”_ he snapped after an hour of this.

Crowley looked up with only a vague idea what all the fuss was about. _“What? They’re in color!”_ Aziraphale looked pointedly from the sticks Crowley had made the human way (strange, misshapen things that he’d dyed as clashingly as he could and yet that somehow still didn’t clash as badly as Aziraphale’s) to the sticks Crowley had made the demonic-miracle way (red glaring eyes, curse words written down their lengths, one with little skulls on). _“Oh, c’mon, I’m not actually going to give him these ones,”_ Crowley said, although he was at that moment having a spectacular idea wherein he disguised them just long enough to get them into the hands of the children before turning them back and savoring the reactions of the parents.

Aziraphale looked tired, which was unusual enough for Crowley to rededicate himself to the actual goal. Soon enough service drew near and they knew to expect the choirmaster back soon. The candy sticks in question looked… well. They existed*.

* _Even Aziraphale couldn’t think of anything nice to say about them, turning over a number of options in his head before settling on, “They are certainly candy.”_

Voices carried over from the church and Aziraphale’s hands fluttered nervously across the counter. _“I don’t know what to do, I can’t think, there must be something –”_

Crowley responded promptly, as always, to Aziraphale’s distress. _“Here, angel, let me take care of it,”_ he said, reaching past Aziraphale to the counter*.

* _Did he_ need _to touch the sticks in order to perform a miracle on them? Absolutely not. Did it allow him to get rather well-acquainted with the personal space of a certain Principality? Absolutely, and Aziraphale wasn’t moving away, either, so he refused to feel any shame about it._

 _“Oh, thank you,”_ Aziraphale said, with a smile as sudden and bright as the sun bursting through clouds, and he straightened up in a way that brought him even closer to Crowley, who instantly found all thoughts fleeing his head. The angel was all he could see or feel or imagine and he practically forgot about the task he was performing until the choirmaster burst in through the door.

Immediately the great cloud of metaphysical potentiality in his hand resolved itself into something fit for human eyes, color settling onto the sticks where it belonged. The choirmaster’s eyes darted down to them as Crowley sucked in a breath.

The choirmaster stepped over to the counter for examination; Crowley and Aziraphale got out of his way. Then he turned his gaze around the room to where the other hundreds of sticks had been cooling.

Crowley and Aziraphale realized two things at the exact same time:

One, the sticks had been rather less cool than they’d thought when placing them precariously on the various surfaces, and the ends had now drooped down towards the floor where they reached the edges of the windowsills, tables, and brick.

Two, every single one of them was now dyed entirely a single color; namely a pristine, blinding white.

There behind the choirmaster’s back, Aziraphale turned a furious gaze on Crowley and mouthed the word _Really?_ To which Crowley threw up his hands in the universal gesture of _I don’t know what you want from me._ Aziraphale’s expression became mournful as the choirmaster turned back to them with a handful of crooked-over sticks. Suddenly Crowley’s annoyance flew away and he only wanted to fix the difficulty, just to take that look off the angel’s face. This development wasn’t great for either of their assignments, either.

 _“What is this?”_ the choirmaster asked slowly.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak. Crowley held a hand against his stomach to stop him and met the choirmaster’s stare. _“You mean you don’t recognize it?”_ he drawled, and felt Aziraphale stifling a bewildered reaction beside him.

 _“I don’t catch your meaning,”_ said the choirmaster.

 _“Well, it’s a shepherd’s crook, innit?”_ Crowley continued with a minor helping of insolence.

For a moment the whole room paused, and Crowley did a double-take to make sure he hadn’t inadvertently stopped time. _“A what?”_

 _“A shepherd’s crook! You’re doing a nativity, right? Teaching the children about the birth of the Son of God. You can’t just give them sugar sticks like a common candymaker. It’s got to_ mean _something. So. Shepherd’s crooks. In memory of the shepherds who journeyed to see the infant in the manger. You could branch out in the future, you know. Symbols for all of ’em. Angels, kings… bet a lot of parishioners would travel for miles to see the candy everyone’s talking about.”_

He got deep into the rhythm of it, the rolling feeling of a good temptation, and when he stopped talking there came that moment, the same moment that always arrives at the end: the held-breath moment before the target speaks and he knows if he’s done it.

 _“You’re right,”_ the choirmaster said, looking at the stick – the crook – in his hand like a revelation. _“That’s very clever! An educational tool. The parents will like that.”_

Aziraphale was giving Crowley a positively _brilliant_ smile, like he had just hung the stars in front of him. Crowley’s breath caught under the force of it.

 _“But… why are they white?”_ the choirmaster asked, threatening another frown.

Crowley hesitated. Aziraphale turned to the choirmaster without losing that sweet smile and said, in a tone that wouldn’t melt butter, _“Why, clearly, it represents the sinless life of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”_

The rest of that evening is a blur to Crowley – he remembers the moment the choirmaster stepped out of the room and Aziraphale fell into giggling madly, Crowley joining him, almost saying _I didn’t know you had it in you_ except that he absolutely had. Maybe the candy canes here in the bookshop are the same ones they then took and tied up with spotted twine and handed out to the children of the church together; maybe they were created from nothing to appear that way. It doesn’t really matter. They’re here all the same, and Aziraphale is holding one out to him with the smile of someone experiencing the same memory he is. Crowley takes one and collapses back onto the sofa to enjoy it. Aziraphale, in a move that is now common but no less breathtaking, sits beside him.

“You know, I’m not certain any of those children absorbed the lesson we were trying to teach them,” says Aziraphale as he removes the twine from his.

“Parents ate it up, though, didn’t they?” Crowley yanks off his own twine and drops it on the end table with the manufactured carelessness of someone who really wants to drop it on the floor but has endured enough wounded looks from an angel to reluctantly train himself out of it.

“They did, rather,” says Aziraphale, and without losing the twinkle in his eye, pops the stick into his mouth.

Crowley is expecting it, this time, so he doesn’t quite let out a pitiful whine, but it’s close. Aziraphale swirls it around a bit and laves his tongue past his lips to catch flavor from further down. He does not break eye contact, because the universe hates Crowley and wants him to spontaneously combust right here and now.

As usual, Crowley’s brain flits through several pet theories: _1.) He has no idea what he’s doing. 2.) He MUST know what he’s doing, I mean, really??? There is no way in Heaven or Hell he doesn’t realize. 3.) He can see right through me and he’s doing this to torment me, to mock me for my reaction. 4.) Aziraphale isn’t that cruel. If he knows what he’s doing but it isn’t to mock me, then… 5.) He wants me to climb him right now and take him over this very sofa and the whole time his mouth will taste like that Godblessed candy. 6.) That’s ridiculous. There’s no way that’s right. 7.) He must not know what he’s doing._

Torn by the rampant chaos in his mind, Crowley stares at Aziraphale and hates him, just a little bit (but not really because that’s impossible on a cellular level), for putting him in this position and daring to look him in the eye like he has no idea what’s happening. So he lifts his own candy cane and breaks the stare long enough to give it a considering onceover. He flicks his tongue out along it ( _That’s how serpents smell, don’t you know that, Aziraphale? That’s all it is,_ he imagines saying, snarky-sweet) and then finally takes it into his mouth. By the crook end.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Aziraphale and Crowley looks up at him. Aziraphale has let the candy fall out of his own mouth in favor of staring at Crowley’s, which is wide around the crook and sucking audibly. Crowley lets his tongue flick out again and brings it back in with a slow slide. When he closes his mouth back around it he hums low in his throat ( _That noise just means I’m appreciating the taste, angel – see? It’s weird, isn’t it??_ ) and swallows. He is gratified to see that any trace of smugness is gone from Aziraphale’s expression. Whether he’s panicked by the sheer salaciousness of it (likely) or in the same state as Crowley (less likely but so much more fun to imagine), Aziraphale has lost all control over the situation, and he knows it. Crowley has won.

Having achieved his victory, Crowley grins a little and bares his fangs. He’s expecting to put an abrupt end to their game when he crunches off half of the candy with a savage bite.

He is _not_ expecting Aziraphale’s eyes to go even wider, his throat to swallow hard, or his hand to drop its forgotten candy cane onto the floor.

There is a brief moment that feels very long as they sit there, not breaking their gaze, and then Crowley ducks to retrieve Aziraphale’s candy and shove it back into his hand without touching him. Was that too far? Is he going insane? He’s pretty sure they switched metaphors at the end there*, but something about his violent serpent’s teeth earned him a reaction. He almost dares to think it was a positive one, but the moment the thought arises, he pushes it back down and throws a few metaphorical chains across it for good measure.

* _At least, he_ hopes _so._

Every time he dares think he has the right of it, every time he trusts his senses enough to reach out, he gets shot down. He gets _You go too fast for me_ and _It’s over._ If he tips his hand, if he reveals himself in full for even a moment, it is most likely that Aziraphale will end everything. Crowley doesn’t understand himself – why he can’t be content with what he has. Somehow, he’s lucked into being the best friend* of the most perfect creature in all creation. He has what he’s always wanted – Our Side, space to relax and breathe and smile without fear. Somehow he always thought that, once they got there, he’d be able to let go of some of the _wanting_.

* _He’s willing to assume that much, given that he’s pretty sure he’s Aziraphale’s_ only _friend, which doesn’t stop him from glaring at any human whose name Aziraphale knows until he’s sure they haven’t begun the process of stealing him away._

There’s a metaphor there about reaching too high, flying too close to the sun. The humans think it’s overused now, which Crowley resents because he was _there_ when it was spun, a tale told around a flickering fire, and if anyone has a right to all the poetic lines of the sun and stars it’s _him_ , he who was there for their creation*.

* _He doesn’t remember_ everything _about what he made; the trauma of the Fall wrote over some of those memories forever. He would be shocked to know just how_ much _of it is his. He would be awed to remember just who it was that crafted that most important Sun._

So Crowley is a greedy, ruinous thing, an ungrateful wretch not satisfied by all he’s been given ( _given by Aziraphale, for God has given him nothing, he has never had anything he didn’t pry from the maw of the universe with his bare hands_ ). He pulls the greed back down inside him before it destroys everything. He smiles at Aziraphale, who is watching him closely, maybe seeing too much, but if Crowley just speaks then he can head that off before the damage is done.

“So, ah, what do you think the stripes mean, anyway?” Crowley asks quickly, the first safe question that comes to mind. Aziraphale surveys him for another long moment.

“The stripes?”

“Yeah, you know. They’ve got the red ones. Well, now they have all sorts, there’s green for sour apple and I swear I saw a popcorn one the other day, but d’you think they have an explanation? Not as good as your reasoning on the white, of course.” Crowley smirks, which has the desired effect of drawing Aziraphale back into the discussion.

“Oh, knowing them, I’m sure it’s something appalling. Blood, or wrath, or some such thing. Humans do like to use red for violence.”

Crowley swallows down his first response, which is _Red also means love_ , and says instead: “Took them a bit to come up with that, though. They kept ours for a while after.”

“Yes. Right.” Aziraphale clears his throat in a way that usually precedes Important Conversations. Crowley’s chest squeezes in panic. “That’s what I wanted to say. About the after.”

Crowley schools his expression into one befitting his role: uncaring with a hint of warning, _don’t-get-all-angelic-on-me_ , the same prohibitive approach he takes to _thank you_ s when they light up him up inside. When Aziraphale is nervous to say something, it can go a couple of ways, from _Thank you for being so kind_ all the way down to _We need to stop seeing each other_. Crowley never knows what to expect, so he just raises an eyebrow and waits.

Aziraphale’s face softens, which is comforting. Nothing awful has ever been said with eyes that warm. “I don’t know if you remember, but soon after we made these, I convinced you to take on my blessing so that I could leave.”

Crowley shrugs, remembering it strongly and trying not to let on. He recalls how Aziraphale came to him the very next day, eyes already shuttered, and told him it was time to move on. _“That’s what the…_ Arrangement _is for, yes? So we really ought to get on with it. I’ll owe you.”_ His voice still ducked like the very word _Arrangement_ was blasphemy, and he was gone by evening. “’S how it worked,” Crowley says reasonably. “The Arrangement.”

“Yes, but it was so lovely working together. I should have stayed.” Aziraphale looks down at his clasping hands and then back up at Crowley. His next words are quiet and earnest: “I wanted to stay.”

Crowley freezes. Is this a thing they’re doing now? Do they say things like this now? So long the past has stretched between them like an exposed wire. They dance around it with names and dates and _where was that café?_ without getting anywhere near how it _felt_. Crowley can’t decide if he’s more intrigued or uncomfortable. But Aziraphale is so honest in front of him, he would almost dare to say _vulnerable_ , and Crowley owes it to him to meet him there. “It would have been nice,” he allows. “But it’s okay that you couldn’t.”

“I can now.”

Aziraphale presses a hand to his knee (which feels like an entirely different sort of live wire) and stands, busying himself with the new boxes from the morning’s shipment. As he leans down the candy canes vanish from the desk, and Crowley thinks, _finally_.

And then, with a terrible insight: _Is that what it takes?_

They’d talked about 1860, on the lake – how close they’d been, how nice it was. They’d talked about the wassail party and the song Crowley never forgot. And now, that day in the rectory kitchen, and what came after.

It makes a vicious sense, that his rebel subconscious is holding out for catharsis. And it’s just Crowley’s luck. He drops his head back onto the sofa and mouths _why me?_ at the ceiling. If they have to talk about every single one of these blessed memories to get them to go away…

Well. There are a few objects that Crowley is _desperately_ hoping do not put in an appearance.

Just then Aziraphale calls out to him for help (‘help’) with the inventory, so Crowley levers himself off the sofa and goes to him. There will be time to worry about it tonight, when sleep proves elusive in the lonely dark. And it’s true (although he will never admit it, will never give the rebellious shard of himself the satisfaction) that there is a warm feeling to these conversations, to taking these memories out of forbidden storage and looking at them together in the forgiving light. He knows that Aziraphale’s words will also echo in his mind, this and many other nights:

_I wanted to stay._

They will lull him to sleep when he has nothing else to cling to.

_I can now._

Maybe he will collect more of them over the coming days, until he finds a way to put a stop to his accidental miracles. More words to gather around himself like a cloak through the winter. It feels like pieces of his soul fitting back into place where he didn’t even know anything was missing.

_I wanted to stay. I can now._

Crowley goes to help with the inventory, and it is with a surprising warmth of anticipation that he wonders what tomorrow will bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My notes for this chapter included the phrase “who am I as a person if I don’t make them lick it?”  
> Then I read the supposed original ‘meaning’ of candy canes and thought “wow, I wonder who came up with that grade-A bullshit… WAIT”
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘snowglobe’: An item unexpectedly precious to both of them sparks a long-overdue conversation. Crowley absolutely Does Not cry, not even a little, how dare you think such a thing.


	4. Snowglobe

Aziraphale has always been weak where Crowley is concerned, which is to say that he has always been strong.

Weak enough to give in, time and time again, against all common sense and logic, to meet with him and dine with him and Arrange with him no matter how many times he told himself he was done.

Strong enough to fight the programming of Heaven just a little, to see the worth of the demon before him, to seek Crowley even when every instinct in his body was screaming for him to run back to safety.

Strong enough to do what he could to protect him, to fight the deepest urges of his heart, to keep them from falling into each other and never coming apart until they were both inevitably destroyed for it, strong enough to say _no_ when everything in him wanted to say _yes_ and damn Crowley to a fate much worse than Hell.

Weak enough to be cowardly and cruel, to hurt Crowley in the worst of ways over and over, to lie to him (however unconvincingly) and push him away and convince himself that all that fear was ever really _strength_ at all.

Today’s miracle holds more of his heart, both its strength and its weakness, than any so far. Aziraphale is nervous to reveal it, but he chides himself for the nerves – he has felt this memory like a mark on his soul since it happened, and he knows Crowley did not get away unaffected either. Crowley took his apology so well yesterday, about leaving in Cologne. Sure, there was some hesitation, some looking away, but he hadn’t disengaged, and after it he seemed to brighten up considerably. If words from Aziraphale can take any weight off Crowley’s shoulders at all, he will pour them from his lips until he is dry. And they’ve a lot of ground to cover, according to Aziraphale’s December plan. Best get to it.

Aziraphale takes a moment to call the object to mind before he does anything else – pictures its curves and cool glass, forms its shape with his hands. Then he reaches up with his ethereal essence and pulls it down from the firmament.

The snowglobe appears before him, not a day older than it was in 1906, when Aziraphale last saw it. Aziraphale keeps the connection open, flowing in reality and solidity until it cannot bear more. He wants this to last. It’s the first true gift of this December.

Once it’s formed, Aziraphale sets it in the shop window and sits in the nearby chair. He watches the sunlight filter through and allows himself to get lost in thought. Just because he had a hand in its creation (not only today but back then, the first time) doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate its beauty – it is a borrowed beauty, after all, not but an imitation of the real thing.

It's a large, expensive thing, just barely able to be picked up with one hand. The base is painted with trees that are heavy with fruit*, a blue sky, a veritable garden.

* _Lemons, pomegranates, and some truly anachronistic sweet oranges, but no apples._

And inside the glass, curled up lazily, raising its scaled black head to watch the world with golden eyes, is a pewter figurine of the Serpent of Eden.

The bell to the shop chimes. Crowley enters, seeming well-rested and eager, and Aziraphale’s half-formed plans fly away. He cannot bear to wait. Before Crowley can speak (as he pauses to stretch in the doorway, a long contented yawn), Aziraphale interrupts with an excited whisper:

“Crowley, _look_.”

Crowley does. He crosses to the window and places a hand on the back of Aziraphale’s chair, a heartwarmingly casual gesture that allows Aziraphale to lean a bit into his side.

There’s a silence, longer than Aziraphale expected. He glances up to see Crowley’s face, which has paled. It worries him that he doesn’t know why. “It’s the Serpent of –”

“I know.” It isn’t snapped but practically _breathed_ , nothing of show in Crowley’s manner. He seems to have opened, a rare glimpse of him without interpolation, one of those moments Aziraphale treasures above all else. Crowley pushes his glasses up onto the top of his head, gracing Aziraphale with the sight of those beautiful golden eyes, and crouches down beside the snowglobe, close enough for his nose to nearly touch.

Aziraphale doesn’t know what’s happening here. He can only hope it’s good. “It’s from 1906 –”

“1905,” says Crowley, almost absently, as if his thoughts are speaking themselves without any effort needed on his part. All of his concentration seems to be on the snowglobe.

Aziraphale keeps his own voice hushed, feeling like he is witnessing something transcendental. “You recognize it?”

“Of course.” Crowley finally turns away from the window, sliding down to sit on the floor in front of it, facing Aziraphale. “How do _you_ know when it’s from?”

“I made it.”

Crowley’s eyes are very wide. It is not untrue to suggest they may be a little wet. “I thought maybe – I didn’t know – I didn’t think I’d ever see it again.” He casts another glance back over his shoulder and traces his finger along the glass, only returning when Aziraphale speaks:

“I didn’t know you ever saw it the once, dear boy.”

Crowley nods. His lips twitch with the beginnings of a self-aware smile, like he is coming back to himself. “Course I did. They brought it to London with all the others from Vienna.”

They clearly have very different stories around this, and Aziraphale doesn’t yet comprehend the seam where their stories join. “May I tell you how it happened?”

Crowley hesitates, which is understandable; he has such difficulty with these intimate moments. Aziraphale doesn’t regret asking, though. He thinks he has enough leeway for this, now, and soon Crowley proves him right with another nod. Aziraphale risks placing a hand on his shoulder, as if to get his attention, though clearly he has it already.

“Once, I made a mistake, and I hurt someone dear to me,” he begins, thinking it might be more palatable as this sort of tale, one that sidesteps the _you_ for now. “And afterward, I did a lot of thinking. I went to Vienna on assignment and met a man who was trying to coax brighter light out of glass so others could see to heal. He had tried so many ideas. I gave him some as well, but none of mine worked, either – I couldn’t exactly lend out my halo, I’m afraid.” This coaxes a wider smile from Crowley, who is rapt. “Eventually he hit on something quite by himself. Something that he fancied to look like snow.”

Aziraphale shifts straighter in his seat, getting comfortable, and lets his hand slip down from Crowley’s shoulder to his elbow, where it’s no strain to hold it there.

“He began making these snowglobes regularly – and what marvelous works of art they were. I was supposed to give him divine inspiration, but he didn’t need it, not at all. And anyway, there was only one idea I ever really cared to give him. What had happened in London” – Aziraphale fights for a steady voice, because if he lets himself tear up he’ll never get through this – “weighed heavy on my mind. And so I made him a small figure and asked him to place it in one of his works. He did. He also painted it with Garden imagery, which I thought was rather on-the-nose, but looking at it again now I suppose it’s actually quite lovely.”

Crowley’s easy smile has morphed into something that’s more complicated but no less a smile for it. “Least none of the trees are apples.”

Aziraphale scoffs slightly to remember it. “Yes, well, he painted the rest first and then had the audacity to ask me if he could place an apple in the middle of the serpent’s coils.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“It wasn’t my _vision_ , Crowley!” he says, and then worries he’s breaking the reverential atmosphere, but Crowley just laughs. “Besides,” Aziraphale continues, “the serpent is much more than that one moment. Six thousand years, I was drawing on more memories than that. I should have had him paint it with little Chianti bottles and pairs of designer sunglasses.”

“Could put the sunglasses on the snake,” Crowley suggested.

“But the eyes took me _ages_ to get right! I wouldn’t dream of hiding them.”

“You did them by hand? Not…” Crowley wiggles his fingers in a way that very loosely connotates a miracle.

“I had rather a lot of time to fill.” Aziraphale thinks of those long, empty years without Crowley, at first stubbornly insisting he was fine on his own, and then wistfully conceding that he certainly was not. They had gone longer without each other before, of course, but the modern age seemed to speed it all to a breakneck pace. The more years added to their history, the more deeply they built their web of connection, the harder it was to part. And never had they left on such harsh words. “I did miss you,” he says softly, which he hadn’t planned to say until after he made his apology, and there it is – the slight blush on Crowley’s cheeks, the turning away of his face, the warning signs that he might be about to disengage. Aziraphale drives on quickly: “Anyway, however did you see it? I was under the impression you were asleep.”

“I got orders, occasionally. D’you know how utterly discombobulating that is, smoke up your eyes in the middle of a dream? Anyway, ended up wandering the streets a lot at night. That part’s not important. But I guess they must’ve shipped over a bunch of these things from Vienna, because there they were in a shop window, big sign saying how far they’d traveled. And right in the middle was… you know.”

Aziraphale can picture it clearly: Crowley slipping through the shadows in the night unnoticed*, lit by the glow of streetlamps, peering into windows and suddenly coming across this small version of himself.

* _Aziraphale has never understood how humans can_ fail _to notice Crowley walking by them, particularly with that sinful motion of his hips, but it seems to happen a lot even when Crowley isn’t drawing on demonic stealth. Sometimes Aziraphale wonders how much of Crowley’s swagger is just for that – to draw eyes, to make sure he’s noticed when some natural law seems bent on ensuring he’s not._

“Thought it might be a coincidence at first, but bloody weird coincidence, yeah? Then I thought maybe someone saw me turn and actually managed a good drawing of it for once – they never do get me right. But I did wonder…”

“If I had a hand in it? Of course I did. Couldn’t seem to get that snake out of my mind.”

Crowley goes still but doesn’t pull away, maybe a little wary but caught up in the quiet, contemplative mood. Now seems as good a moment as any. These words, these apologies, have desperately needed to be said for over a century. Aziraphale hopes he’s built enough groundwork that Crowley will be willing to hear them. He’s tempted to keep his hand on Crowley’s elbow, as if it will stop him from running away, but he releases it and sits up, knowing it’s best not to push his luck on both the tactile and emotional fronts at once.

“I was wrong,” Aziraphale says plainly. “I should have believed you when you said you only wanted insurance, and I should have trusted you that it was necessary.”

Crowley makes a sudden move, pushing himself up straighter and opening his mouth, so Aziraphale holds out a hand as if to placate.

“Please, let me say this. You can do as you like afterwards but I do think I’ll do better if I get it out in one go.” At this Crowley settles back, no longer relaxed at all, a serpent’s defensive coil writ on a mostly human body. Aziraphale strikes a soothing tone. “You’re doing me a favor, listening to this. I desperately need you to hear it. I told myself at the time that I was protecting you, and that was true, but I know now I was also protecting myself. It was cowardly of me.”

Crowley looks physically pained at not replying to this, but he stays silent.

“I regretted what I said to you almost immediately, but it still took me unconscionably long to follow through on your request. To –” (and Aziraphale still has his own difficulties, of course, the same old patterns, and he is determined to best them but it is still a fight to say some things out loud after so long tiptoeing through a field of euphemisms) “– to get you the holy water, so that you might protect yourself. I know now that that’s what it was. If I’d had any sense at all, I’d have helped you from the beginning, and saved us all that nonsense. And I want you to know that I am ever so sorry.” He exhales and peers at Crowley, who hasn’t fled the bookshop yet, so that’s probably a good sign. “Do you believe me?”

The question startles Crowley back into motion. “Do I –” He swallows. “It’s nothing, it’s all water under the – you know –”

“It’s not nothing. I acted foolishly and –” He doesn’t think _and I hurt you_ will go over well, even if it’s true. Crowley doesn’t owe him that, the acknowledgement of being vulnerable. “And I was unkind, which you did nothing to deserve.”

“You were right,” Crowley sighs. Aziraphale doesn’t like the weariness in his tone, like a concession to an old argument that was talked to death long ago. “It wasn’t safe for you either. And if they found out about us, us fraternizing –” He breaks off. Aziraphale wishes he had said the word _fraternizing_ with venom, like a mockery, but no. Instead he stepped over it lightly, as if it had a natural place in this conversation, as if he were resigned to growing accustomed to it.

“No.” Aziraphale surprises himself with how forceful it comes out. “Crowley, you can’t still believe – oh, but of course you have, I gave you every reason – I didn’t dare call you my friend, but not out of any lack of feeling. I’m not sure we ever _fraternized_. I don’t think that’s ever been quite the word, do you?”

Somehow this _surprises_ Crowley, who looks at him with cautious hope, and Aziraphale’s heart squeezes. “Didn’t think you’d ever admit that.”

Thoughts tumble over themselves to be expressed and he manages, “I didn’t realize I hadn’t until just now. It’s true. I’m so sorry I ever said otherwise.”

“I seem to remember I said some things too,” Crowley mutters, barely loud enough to hear. Aziraphale tries to remember what he means – something about having other people to fraternize with, which doesn’t count because Aziraphale absolutely brought that on himself. And the other thing: _I don’t need you._

At the time, Aziraphale’s main feeling towards that statement was one of fervent hope: _Let it be true. Let him not need me. He cannot be allowed to need me, but when he looks at me sometimes I think – sometimes I think he –_ but he’d always stop the thought there. What Crowley said had never hurt him, and it was so small compared to all the things Aziraphale has said that it is vanishingly insignificant. “I think I had them coming,” he says wryly. “We’ve never not been friends, Crowley. And that’s something else I need to – I’ve quite a few other things besides that I ought to say. There’s nothing I have to say that you don’t already know, but you still deserve to hear them.”

Crowley holds up a hand. “Please, mercy, angel. Enough for today, yeah?”

Aziraphale presses his lips together and then nods decisively. “Yes, I think you’re right.” That other park conversation, during the failed Apocalypse, is its own beast, and for all his new bravery Aziraphale feels faint at heart when he thinks of wrestling with it. He reaches past Crowley to lift the snowglobe off the windowsill and place it in his hands. “Will you keep it?” he asks quietly.

“Of course.” Crowley looks at him with the awe of someone who’s been given a gift, which of course he has – the first of many, if Aziraphale’s plan bears out. “You know… I did try to buy it. Or, well, I thought to try. Turned out it wasn’t a shop at all – or it was, but those weren’t for sale. They said they were – I dunno, some kind of fair thingy.”

“They were there on exhibit, I’d imagine. I believe they toured quite a bit to drum up business before they flew home to Vienna to roost. I saw it soon after they came back, but never since.”

“Right. And then I thought about breaking in one night, to take it –” Crowley meets Aziraphale’s disapproving expression with a challenging quirk of his eyebrow, _nothing wrong with a little petty theft, angel._ “But it was already gone. Started to think I’d imagined it.”

“You didn’t.” Aziraphale can’t even bring himself to mind the contemplation of crime, because it wouldn’t have been a crime, not really – the snowglobe was always Crowley’s, anyway, made for him from the start.

“I’m smudging my fingerprints all over it,” says Crowley with a short laugh. It’s not a pleasant laugh. There’s pain layered in with self-deprecation. “And I suppose I’ll drop it sometime, no matter what I try, but then I can just –” Another of those handwaves suggesting a miracle. Then his hand stops in midair and his eyes come up to meet Aziraphale’s. “Angel… what if it disappears?”

This, Aziraphale can fix. “It won’t,” he says firmly. He does a handwave of his own (it looks nothing like Crowley’s imitation, honestly*). To summon it, he focused on making it as real as possible, but now he wants it to be more than real.

* _It does._

A light settles over it, visible only with eyes that can see into another plane, and then vanishes.

“There. It won’t break now, no matter what you do to it. Which is _not_ ” – Aziraphale raises a finger to counter what Crowley is opening his mouth to say – “a _challenge_. But it will last.”

“ _Thank you,_ ” says Crowley, fervently and apparently without thinking, because as soon as he realizes what he’s said, he stands up and flicks his sunglasses back down into place. “I’ll, ah, I’ll take it back to the flat now then. Safe and sound. Best not to chance it, yeah?”

Aziraphale shakes his head fondly, suppressing a smile. Silly serpent. But then he _has_ been through it today, they both have, and Aziraphale will never begrudge him his space. “Mind how you go, then. Find a good window for it.” _Don’t sleep for a week this time. Come back to me._

“I will.” Crowley hugs it to his chest a little as he leaves, probably an unconscious gesture that he would hiss (literally) at Aziraphale for pointing out. So he doesn’t. He just leans in the doorway under the afternoon sun, thinking of how many more gifts he can give Crowley, wondering what other precious reactions he might have to each one.

Aziraphale wants to spend the rest of his existence finding gifts that make Crowley’s face look how it did today. One day, he thinks, he won’t need a holiday or a miracle as an excuse. He’ll arrive at Crowley’s side laden with presents to give just because he can, _I saw this and thought of you_ , and Crowley will accept them – maybe with some grumbling or snark, Aziraphale wouldn’t change that for the world, but without bolting away like Aziraphale’s favor is something frightening. Maybe he’ll lean in and kiss him as thanks –

Aziraphale abruptly realizes that somehow, this mental picture has morphed into _coming home_ ; that is, returning at the end of the day to a place where he and Crowley both live, toeing off his shoes and recounting his day before bringing out some parcel from behind his back. And my, how he _aches_ for it. Could Crowley want that too? Would Aziraphale make him happy?

He will do everything in his power to try. He has twenty-seven days left in December, time for gifts and apologies and proof of his dedication, and somewhere in there, he will find a good moment and he will do it.

He will say _I love you_ , and he will face Crowley and accept whatever he has to say in return.

For now, though, he’ll focus on the gifts, and let the rest come as it may. The snowglobe reaction is quite something to top, after all. Best to get thinking on it straight away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someday Aziraphale will figure out that he shouldn’t hide behind his huge elaborate plan. Looks like that day is not today.
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘shopping’: Crowley takes Aziraphale to a Christmas market! Aziraphale reveals a history of bread mischief. Crowley thinks about a young non-Antichrist to whom he might owe some explanations, and Aziraphale has an idea to ease that pain in his heart.


	5. Shopping

In the morning, Crowley awakes feeling warm, and it takes him a long moment to remember why.

The room is also unexpectedly bright. He groans, scrubbing a hand over his eyes, and sits up.

The snowglobe is still there.

And it all comes rushing back. The conversation, the memory, _Aziraphale_ –

Aziraphale thought of him, all those long years Crowley was adrift. Aziraphale missed him. Aziraphale shaped a tiny pewter serpent in his hands and made it beautiful, for no other reason than that Crowley was on his mind.

Crowley lets out an uncharacteristic laugh of delight and rushes over to the window*, where the snowglobe is sparkling in the light.

* _His bedroom has never had a window before, but when it came time to sleep yesterday, some soft part of Crowley wanted to keep the snowglobe nearby. And he’d been charged by his angel to place it in a window, which is where it belongs, sunlight streaming through it. And he will never, ever admit to any of this. No. Matter. What._

As he traces a finger over the top of the glass, staring into a serpent’s face so like his own (but so much more beautiful, because Aziraphale made it), his mood turns thoughtful.

There have been so many words from Aziraphale over the past few days. Crowley wonders if the sudden onslaught of miraculous objects has spurred him into action. And for once, Crowley cannot bring himself to regret what his subconscious has done, not if it brought him back this snowglobe and earned him the story that came along with it. As for the apologies… those were nearly too much. Aziraphale must know that this isn’t necessary. They both know, have always known, that he didn’t mean _most_ of the things he’s said. But hearing him admit it in the light of day is – well. Crowley would never have thought it might be healing until he experienced it for himself.

And now, Crowley is left to wonder, turning over the wealth of Aziraphale’s words in his mind, puzzling over what they mean. He said _I did miss you_ , and _we’ve never not been friends_ , and even Crowley’s pit of self-hatred can’t find a way to twist those into anything short of good. He hinted at further apologies (which Crowley winces to imagine – aren’t they done? They don’t need more, do they? Surely Aziraphale knows that really _would_ be too much!). He told Crowley he couldn’t get him out of his mind.

He also said, _There’s nothing I have to say to you that you don’t already know._

Crowley knew that already. It shouldn’t form a pit in his stomach to hear that Aziraphale has no confessions to make – that he is harboring no great and secret thing inside to rival Crowley’s own. Aziraphale is not in love with him; that has always been a fact of the universe. And as for the things Crowley already knows – that they are friends, that Aziraphale cares about him and regrets taking so long to turn from Heaven – won’t hearing those be enough? Shouldn’t just _knowing_ them be enough already?

What is this damned (because it certainly isn’t blessed) greedy pit in his soul, this sucking maw that opens and pulls for more and more until there is nothing left?

Crowley looks at the snowglobe for another long moment and lets the sight of it calm him, pours the light into himself like it came straight from his angel.

Then he snaps blackout curtains onto the window and goes back to bed, because how does anyone get up at dawn on purpose, this is _ridiculous_.

When he wakes up at a more reasonable hour, after he’s armed himself with a black coffee*, he turns his mind to what comes next.

* _His kitchen is not equipped to assemble any other kind, excepting the night after the airfield when Aziraphale had placed a mug under his fiendishly expensive coffeemaker and somehow ended up with perfectly brewed tea._

The angel’s enjoying Christmas. That much is obvious. Like, _really_ enjoying it. He does this every so often – picks up a human tradition and jumps into it with both feet. Some last, like wine connoisseurship and book collecting*; others, luckily, fade as quickly as they came, like opera singing** or beekeeping.

* _Hoarding._

** _The less said about that, the better; Crowley places all the blame squarely on the encouragement of Francis Poulenc, whose eye for chaos and bastardry Crowley would have admired under any other circumstance._

It would be unfair to make Aziraphale plan their whole holiday season himself. As much as Crowley pretends he’s being dragged along on these outings, he needs to _occasionally_ respond in kind, or Aziraphale might get the wrong message and stop inviting him at all. If Aziraphale’s diving into the season, well – may as well dive with him. It’s always fun to watch him enjoy things.

Crowley pulls out his mobile and flicks through local events. His snake eyes have never played well with electronics, but long before any headache kicks in, he finds an entry and stops. Smiles slowly. Goes to the landline* to phone Aziraphale.

* _Crowley is personally responsible for about 70% of mobile call drop rates, which he is immensely proud of and also never inflicts on himself if he can help it._

“Let me take you out, angel,” he says, and when he gets a _where_ in response, he says only, “It’s a surprise.”

There’s the start of an intrigued _ooooo_ on the line before he hangs up the receiver; Aziraphale’s tone is as over-the-top as ever and Crowley, as usual, finds it adorable where he should find only secondhand embarrassment.

He collects his keys* and drives over. Aziraphale is waiting on the steps.

* _More of a formality than anything – half the time he forgets to use them. The Bentley doesn’t seem to notice one way or the other._

“I didn’t know what to bring,” he says, leaning in at the passenger-side window.

“You don’t need anything, it’s all there. Getting in?”

Aziraphale climbs in, and as soon as the door shuts behind him, Crowley slides back out into traffic, cruising at a positively _glacial_ seventy. The Bentley makes a few discontented rumbles under him and he strokes the steering wheel. _Just today. I owe the angel,_ he thinks. The Bentley may or may not read his mind, but it settles and allows him to switch on Puccini’s _Radio Ga Ga._ It’s a bit indulgent to drive this short a distance, but all the better to keep the surprise for Aziraphale.

“Did you close the shop for this?” Crowley asks, arching an eyebrow.

“What? No, of course not.”

“So it’s open, then.”

“Without me there?” Aziraphale sounds scandalized, then deflates a little when he realizes he’s given himself away. “Well. There’s no need for people to be inside shopping for books when the weather’s so nice.”

“No, you’re right.” Crowley hums in agreement and allows a moment for quiet to settle. Then he adds, “Just like there’s no need when the weather’s too bad, of course. Or too mediocre.”

“ _Crowley_.”

Crowley laughs as he turns up the radio volume.

When they finally arrive in view of Leicester Square, Aziraphale gasps. “Oh, look!”

All that can be seen from the car is a massive archway, lights barely visible in the afternoon sun. Crowley parks the Bentley across two spaces* and they walk up the brick path into the square.

* _The area is teeming with sightseers and holiday shoppers, and double-parking is always fantastic for kicking off a miasma of wrath and frustration that invigorates Crowley’s demonic soul._

Aziraphale clutches his arm when they get in proper sight of it, spreading a warmth through him that makes it worth being out in the cold air. “Oh, it’s lovely! What are they selling?”

“Remember Dresden? The Striezelmarkt?” Crowley grins. “I reckon just about any festive thing you can think of.”

The outdoor Christmas market is composed mainly of stalls and an enormous spiegeltent, with glimpses of other entertainments in between – Aziraphale’s eye catches on a merry-go-round and he goes even softer.

“The lights’ll look better after nightfall. I’d bet we can find enough to keep us occupied ’til then.”

Aziraphale looks at him very seriously, hand still there upon his arm. “I want to do _everything_.”

Crowley lets him lead them away.

In the end, it’s lucky they don’t need to earn their money, because they’ve done enough shopping to burn through even the fattest of wallets. Crowley carries most of it; Aziraphale offers at each stop to take something, but when Crowley refuses, he gets that pleased look in his eyes and fails to hide a small smile. Crowley’s glad they’ve collected these rituals over the years – things he can do that practically scream _I’m in love with you_ but that have become so normal for them as not to set off any alarms.

Aziraphale obtains a slice of _Stollen_ bread from a German vendor whose stall is filled with familiar goods. “We’ll be back,” Crowley tells her, lifting one shoulder in lieu of a wave, as both of his hands are currently occupied with carriers. He turns to Aziraphale in time to catch his expression upon the first bite.

It doesn’t disappoint. Aziraphale closes his eyes and makes a small hum, subtle by his standards but still enough to put fire in Crowley’s blood. He turns to Crowley immediately. “You _must_ try it.”

He’s holding the bread out in front of him with a pleading look that is impossible to resist. Crowley sighs, making sure to sound put-upon, and shifts toward him, thinking too late of his full hands. He flicks a glance down at them without meaning to. Aziraphale holds the bread closer.

 _In for a penny,_ Crowley thinks, and leans forward to take a bite. Aziraphale watches him with a pleased expression. Crowley imagines taking more, swallowing it down piece by piece until there’s barely any left and he can take the last of it by closing his lips around Aziraphale’s fingers; then he crashes that train of thought off a cliff and straightens back up. The bread _is_ good. Airy and not too sweet, filled with raisins and almonds and – “Is that marzipan?”

Aziraphale nods. “Not the same as the German, of course, but quite enjoyable in its own right. Do you remember?”

“Of course I do.” Crowley operated out of Dresden for a good five years in the middle of the fifteenth century, when it seemed the Holy Roman Empire needed only a nudge to snap apart. He still strongly suspects Heaven had a hand in the reform that allowed it to limp on a few centuries more. He only saw Aziraphale the once, though, sometime around 1450.

When Crowley spotted him at the Striezelmarkt, Aziraphale was standing by a stall, steam rising from his drink. His tunic was a robin’s egg blue with accents of cream – positively a riot of color by Aziraphale’s standards. Crowley approached him from behind, stealthily, just to see his reaction.

 _“Fancy running into you here,”_ he drawled.

Aziraphale turned, not startled at all, but with something like a smile growing on his face. It quickly disappeared, though, and Crowley decided he must have imagined it. _“I’m here on assignment. I assume you are as well?”_

So formal. Crowley shrugged and rolled his shoulders, eliciting a crack from his spine that made Aziraphale wince. _“I suppose. Bloody long one, though. In one of the lulls right now – you’d better hope yours is nothing like mine, or you might never get out.”_

 _“I shall be pleased to stay as long as Heaven requires me,”_ said Aziraphale with poorly disguised dismay.

 _“You know, I_ could _just…”_ Crowley trailed off, letting Aziraphale fill in the blanks himself.

Aziraphale didn’t for several seconds. Finally it clicked into place and his polite confusion gave way to offense. _“Don’t be ridiculous!”_ he hissed*, dragging Crowley behind one of the other stalls. _“You can’t just –_ say _…”_

* _Not literally, but close enough for Crowley’s serpent brain to spend a few moments attempting to translate it._

 _“Aziraphale, it’s fine. It’s_ been _fine. Nobody’s noticed anything.”_

 _“No thanks to you! You talk about it in broad daylight, it’s like you don’t even_ care _if anyone finds out what we’ve been doing –”_

It amused Crowley immensely to observe how much their conversation sounded like a very _different_ conversation. Aziraphale saw his smirk and misinterpreted it.

_“It’s not funny. Someone’s going to notice eventually, and if you’re going to keep accosting me on the street about it, you may as well just tell the entire world. What we’ve been doing together is quite forbidden –”_

_“Is it now? And exactly what…_ forbidden _thingssss have I been doing with you, angel?”_ he asked, letting the full innuendo of it ooze into his voice.

Aziraphale’s immediate change in expression was gratifying. _“Stop that! You know I’m talking about the – about…”_ It evidently took him a moment to psyche himself up to say it. When he did, it was practically a whisper. _“The_ Arrangement _.”_

There was always a moment in their interactions when the fun of teasing needed to give way to the safety of changing the subject. Crowley’s job was to find that moment. If he did it right, Aziraphale would stay, maybe even for the whole evening. _“Look, you’re right. We don’t even know if it’s needed yet. Let’s just – tell you what, come have a drink with me and I’ll stop talking about it.”_

_“I’m not going to have a drink with you.”_

This was a bold statement, given the number of times they’d dined together since those first oysters in Rome. _“All right, then. Have a drink_ near _me. You know they’ve got wine in from Florence…”_

There was a moment of very unconvincing hesitation. Then Aziraphale sighed. _“Oh, very well. I’ve only just arrived anyway. I suppose you know where things are.”_

The Striezelmarkt was not _exactly_ a place one could get lost. Crowley did not mention this fact.

Once a cup of wine or two had made its way into Aziraphale, he loosened up and became almost friendly again. Crowley brought him around to the various stalls, pointing out what was new this year and what had returned. Aziraphale led them to the stall of a baker whom he evidently knew already.

The baker attempted to refuse Aziraphale’s coin; eventually Aziraphale left it neatly stacked atop a tin of elderberries.

 _“What’s that?”_ Crowley asked, peering at the bread he’d bought.

 _“Stollen,”_ Aziraphale said. _“You might enjoy it. It’s not too sweet.”_ He broke off a piece and gave it to Crowley, annoyingly careful not to touch his hand.

Crowley ate some while recovering from the notion that Aziraphale was keeping track of what he did or didn’t enjoy. It was the right size – only a couple of bites, which was all Crowley ever took before just enjoying watching Aziraphale eat. _“’S not bad,”_ he told him.

 _“High praise.”_ Aziraphale gave him a genuine smile as he finished off the rest of it.

It wasn’t bad. It was… suspiciously good. But at the time, Crowley wasn’t comfortable enough to cast aspersions by asking.

Now, Crowley is more comfortable with Aziraphale than ever, and more than happy to asperse if it might earn him a blush. “You know, it _was_ very good, back then,” he says.

Aziraphale nods, not yet sensing the trap.

“One might say _suspiciously_ good,” Crowley adds, relishing the chance to say it after all these centuries, like coming back to an argument never satisfactorily concluded.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale says frostily. He’s caught on now.

Crowley takes his time, savoring it. “I might be wrong,” (he isn’t) “but didn’t the Church _ban_ butter for Advent?”

“They may have.”

Crowley endured much too much complaining at the time for Aziraphale to pretend he doesn’t remember now. “May have?”

Aziraphale rounds on him with a spectacular eyeroll. “Oh, you know it did, you enjoyed the fallout well enough.”

“Scarcity does bring out the worst in people,” says Crowley appreciatively. “Heaven’s always loved it too, though. I’m just wondering, is it possible that baker got hold of something _forbidden?”_

“See, even _you_ could taste the difference, it was a nightmare without it.”

“I wonder how he did that.” Crowley looks away, all innocence, until Aziraphale caves.

“He wasn’t _very_ religious! And what was the harm, really? It made him very popular, no one ever found out, and I left his family with a blessing that more than made up for the risk.”

 _“I knew it,”_ Crowley hisses*.

 _*This one a real hiss, and how he does it without any sibilants, even_ he _doesn’t know._

“It’s not like I tried very hard to hide it from you.”

“All this time, I thought, I wonder if that angel had something to do with it –”

“And you liked the bread too.”

“– nah, but he _wouldn’t_ , unless –”

“And it’s not like it was _actually_ a sin.”

“– centuries of wondering, can’t see a stick of butter without thinking of it –”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“– and it turns out _I was right._ ”

Aziraphale looks very unimpressed with him. “Are you done now?”

“ _Illicit butter,_ ” Crowley crows*. He is never letting this one go.

* _Crowily._

Eventually Aziraphale distracts him with a stall that has glass ornaments* while he slips out to obtain something stronger for them to drink. Crowley snaps all the shopping back to the Bentley** in order to browse.

* _Crowley is in no way easily distracted by shiny things, and he’s frankly offended anyone would imply it, and ooh what’s that gleaming over there?_

** _Could he have done this earlier? Yes. But why would he, with Aziraphale smiling at him like he was being gallant, and thanking him at every stop despite Crowley’s protests that no one ever thanks a demon?_

Crowley is staring at an artificial pine tree bedecked with wooden ornaments when Aziraphale returns. He’s staring at one ornament in particular.

“You should get it for him,” Aziraphale says quietly.

The ornament is a wooden spaceship. Crowley lifts his hand to cup it from the back, then thinks better of it. “Nah. Don’t even know if he’s into that anymore.”

“He’s _eleven_ , Crowley, not twenty-one. He can’t have changed that much.”

“They change fast, you know that. Remember when he was just –” Crowley cuts off because he cannot keep his voice steady if he finishes the thought.

“He’ll never not like space. Everything he’s heard about the stars, he learned from _you_.”

Crowley pushes his glasses up further until they dig into his skin. He pictures Warlock, maybe out on the lawn this very night, looking up at the constellations, knowing their names as well as he knows the sub-princes of Hell*. Tracing their shapes in the sky.

* _Actually rather better than he knows the sub-princes of Hell, since Crowley allowed certain embellishments to creep into his storytelling. So what if Warlock didn’t know the real names of every boring demon in the place? He outranked them, outclassed them, and either he would meet them just long enough to say “No thanks” or he would come to rule them and their names would be whatever he damn well wanted them to be. Besides, Crowley’s characters were much more interesting, at least in his own opinion._

_Then again, some of Crowley’s constellations were made up too. He insisted on rigid accuracy when it came to the names and types of the stars themselves, but when it came to drawing pictures with them, he may have taken liberties in pointing out a world-devouring serpent or an entire legion of the damned._

“Let’s have him over for Christmas dinner,” Aziraphale says, still quiet. “We’ll hold it a few days early, maybe, or a few days late. I think I’d like to see him again. I would bet he’d like to see you too.”

Crowley has texted Warlock exactly three times since his birthday party, each against his better judgment. _He’s better off without me,_ he thought furiously at himself as his thumbs tapped over the screen without his consent. _I screwed him all up. I never belonged with him. I’m sure he’s forgotten me already._ Once when the world was nearing its supposed end: **Get somewhere safe. Don’t go outside. Don’t trust anyone with an animal on their head. Wait until the rain stops. I will make sure the rain stops.** Once immediately after: **I have to go away for a while. Stay safe. It’s better if you don’t know.** And again, growing maudlin in the grip of November: **I hope you’re well. It’s cold where I am – make sure you’re wearing your warm hat. Do great and terrible things.**

Warlock answered the first: **the rain stopped. are you safe too?** He answered the second: **don’t know what??????**

He did not answer the third.

Crowley clears his throat. “I don’t know about that.”

“I’ve already drafted an e-mail* for his mother,” Aziraphale says. “Let me send it. Just to see?”

* _Aziraphale audibly pronounces the hyphen. It seems possible to Crowley that he thinks E Mail is two separate words, with the stress on “Mail,” and the “E” being perhaps some sort of brand name._

Crowley nods. “Okay,” he whispers.

Aziraphale reaches gently around him and pulls the rocket ship from the branches, taking it over to pay for it with money that didn’t exist until a moment ago. Crowley stares at the tree unseeing until it becomes a little less blurry.

“Okay,” he says again, though Aziraphale is not there to hear him.

When they get back onto the path, Aziraphale pulls him aside to hand him the rocket ship. He hesitates for a long moment, then brings out something else from behind his back. “This was on the tree too,” he says, and Crowley – Crowley recognizes it.

 _“I’m only saying, it’s not that bad,”_ Crowley said towards the end of the night in the Striezelmarkt, when they were both drunk and giddy. _“The Church changing. Churches always change. ’m just helping it along.”_

 _“Yes, but they have to change the_ right _way. You know, ever toward improvement, and all that.”_

_“How d’you know what’s improvement?”_

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. _“I don’t. What’s improvement?”_ He looked at Crowley expectantly, like it’s a real question.

_“I dunno… ah… oh, churches, you were saying churches.”_

_“Yes, right. They change, but the – you know. The roots. The roots are there. I don’t suppose you ever forget where you came from.”_

Crowley thought of where he came from, and the long downwards route by which he left, and in the night darkness he smacked his leg quite hard on a tree.

 _“Are you all right?”_ asked Aziraphale with wide eyes. Crowley shook his leg out and tested it on the ground, almost reluctant to prove himself okay when _not_ being okay was earning Aziraphale’s concern. The leg was fine. He shot a glare at the tree. And then, he wasn’t sure who started it, but the two of them were laughing madly. _“You – your face! Can’t you see in the dark?”_

 _“Not like this! Haven’t got the –”_ He gestured vaguely at himself, baring his teeth like it will help his demonstration of snake anatomy. _“The – the face thingies. Makes heat go all –”_ Another gesture, complete with finger wiggles in the air.

 _“Nostrils,”_ Aziraphale said sagely.

Crowley didn’t think that sounded right, somehow, but he couldn’t think of anything better.

By now they had ended up outside of one of the stalls, this one selling wooden ornaments, most with symbols carved along them. Aziraphale lifted one up. It was a nativity, complete with an angel at the top and shepherds standing watch outside.

 _“Well, you’re on there,”_ Crowley said.

 _“This is where he came from,”_ said Aziraphale, one finger caressing the tiny bed of hay in the middle, where an even tinier form rested. _“However they choose to interpret what he said… we know what he really said. We know what he meant.”_

Crowley reached to take the ornament from Aziraphale, who moved it towards him, but while it was still between them, a shout sounded from across the path.

_“Aziraphale!”_

Aziraphale’s hand snatched back and he stepped away from Crowley. The ornament struck the path and split in two.

 _“Yes, hello there, I was just looking for you!”_ Aziraphale turned to the speaker, a rich-looking human with an arrogant air about him. _“You’re the one having the new church built, yes? I have some ideas about that, they come highly recommended, from the very top –”_

 _“And is this gentleman assisting you?”_ the human asked, glancing at Crowley.

Aziraphale’s voice went very high. _“No one! I don’t know him! Why would I help him? I mean he help me? There’s no assisting going on here! Let’s walk over this way, shall we?”_

He led the human away without a backward glance. Crowley just stood there, then eventually realized he was incriminatingly close to an expensive broken object on the ground. He left with a quick curse on the rest of the ornaments, too, so they would break as soon as someone got them home and began to hang them.

To see it again, now, whole, is strange. He reaches to take it from Aziraphale, and then some sense memory kicks in and he freezes, starting to retract his hand.

Aziraphale reaches forward and gives it to him, hand pressing against his own even after the transfer is made.

“I was going to buy it for you, then,” Aziraphale says. “And you were right – it turned out to be a long assignment, and dreadfully dull, and I was too ashamed to find you and work something out together. It would have been a nice experience.”

Crowley snorted. “I don’t know that I ever had a nice experience in that place.”

“I had one.” Aziraphale smiles softly.

Crowley places both ornaments in his pocket* and offers his arm to Aziraphale before he can think too much about it.

* _Jacket pocket. Those jeans will never fit anything more than half a hand in their pockets and that’s the way he likes it._

Without a single hesitation, Aziraphale takes his arm and walks with him back to the Bentley, the night air chilly enough around them that it makes sense to press close. They look back once more at the lights of the archway.

“This was fun,” says Aziraphale. “Such a clever idea.”

Crowley doesn’t say that he literally just Googled ‘holiday things to do london’ and picked one off a list; he’s too busy preening internally.

“We could walk back?” Aziraphale suggests.

This will postpone the sense of loss Crowley’s already been feeling at the thought of letting go. One of the worst parts* of a night comes when he and Aziraphale separate to enter opposite sides of the car.

* _The other worst is, of course, when they part for the night. Whether it’s Aziraphale leaving the Bentley or Crowley leaving the bookshop, something about it always feels_ wrong _. Like they are not supposed to spend their nights apart. Crowley has been battling this sensation for longer than he can remember and it’s not going away anytime soon._

The walk home is warm, the two of them huddled nearly as close as during the ice skating, and when they get back to the bookshop they go in and talk for an hour more. Only when Crowley’s eyelids grow heavy does Aziraphale ask if he wants to sleep, which Crowley takes as an obvious dismissal, since it’s not like he can sleep here (no matter how much he wants to). He goes out to the Bentley* and brings the shopping in, leaving Aziraphale surrounded by bags in the warm glow of the lights, waving to him as he starts the drive home.

* _Like always, he left the Bentley at Leicester Square knowing that it would be at the bookshop when he needed it, and it was. He’s not sure whether it drives itself back or appears instantaneously**, and he doesn’t need to know._

** _The answer is both, depending on the mood it’s in that day._

Crowley reaches into his pocket and pulls out the little wooden nativity, which hasn’t yet disappeared. He snaps* and thinks he feels the metaphysical shimmer of a demonic miracle settle into the wood and stay there.

* _Seeing no reason to leave a hand on the steering wheel; the Bentley knows its job._

If Aziraphale could make the snowglobe permanent, maybe Crowley can make this permanent too.

Not that he wants the miracles to keep happening! Every day there’s the risk that something truly revealing will appear, something he can’t explain away, some memory that will betray his secrets and make Aziraphale turn away forever. He really does need to look into this further. Who does he know that might have some occult expertise?

There must be someone.

…

Yeah, nope. He’s drawing a blank. But then he’s bad with names… and faces… and people… just humans in general, really. They don’t tend to capture his attention, with one not-the-Antichrist-but-who-could-blame-him-for-thinking-it-shaped exception. His attention is usually reserved for Aziraphale alone.

Ah, well. Maybe it will come to him. He sets the ornament down on the passenger seat, places next to it a small wooden spaceship, and continues the journey home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I picture Crowley’s take on constellations to be like cloud-watching. He comes up with something new every time, and it’s a collaborative process open to suggestions. Cloud-watching does differ in that he can easily affect the shape of the clouds, meaning Warlock is accustomed to demon cirruses and hellhound cumulonimbuses and the sky looking very spooky indeed.
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘naughty vs. nice’: Crowley delights in Krampus. Aziraphale has an important conversation with an diplomat's wife.


	6. Naughty vs. Nice

The first thing Aziraphale does upon waking* is send his electronic mail message to Harriet Dowling.

* _He is in strict observance of what he believes to be Inter Net Etiquette, which he’s cobbled together from a mix of Victorian letter-writing and the time telephones were first invented. He’s decided to err on the side of the telephone for this one, since it would be rude to disturb someone at three in the morning, as it was when Crowley finally went home last night._

He’s brewing a cup of tea when a knock sounds at the bookshop door. He ignores it the first few times, but it persists.

“We’re closed,” he calls out.

The knock gets louder.

He sets down his mug with a sigh and makes his way slowly to the door, hoping that if he dawdles, the person will go away on their own. Customers are so _entitled_ these days. His hours are clearly posted*!

* _He doesn’t actually remember what they_ say _– it’s quite a bit to memorize – but he’s sure they must cover this particular circumstance somewhere._

It doesn’t work; there’s someone still waiting on the step. His mistake is that he doesn’t look more closely at who they are before flinging open the door and saying, “We are _closed_ , and I assure you there’s no reason to –”

Harriet Dowling stands on his doorstep.

He flinches backward before he can think. Two worlds are colliding very rapidly – years of clandestinity wiped away in moments. She’s not supposed to be _here_ , at the bookshop. She’s not supposed to know the bookshop exists.

And she looks almost as surprised to see him. “Brother _Francis?”_

Aziraphale glances down at himself, then back up, then touches a hand to his face. Oh, _bugger_. He can’t exactly change now. He wonders vaguely whether he can convince her she’s mistaken, no idea what she’s talking about, he’s never heard of this Francis fellow, who is that?

“It _is_ you,” she says. “Your eyes are just the same. I should have known. We always thought, you know, you and Nanny –”

“Why don’t you come in,” he says loudly, moving aside for her. She dutifully steps past him. He darts a glance left and right, ensuring no one’s watching from the street, and locks the door firmly behind them.

“Beautiful shop.” Harriet is staring up at the cobwebs on the ceiling with poorly concealed unease. Aziraphale briefly considers the need to put more of his customer repellants on the _outside_ of the shop – perhaps this could have been avoided if she’d been frightened away on the street.

There’s very little he can do about that now. “Thank you. Tea?”

She nods in a dazed way. He goes to get the mug he’s brewed and miracles one to match it*, which must give her enough time to collect herself, because by the time he returns she’s smiling again. Wonderfully resilient, diplomats’ wives.

* _Humans never notice the worsened taste of miracled food. For Aziraphale, the difference is night and day, and he’s never understood how anyone could fail to see it. Even his December miracles have had a slight strangening effect on food so far, though not nearly as strong; he suspects he may actually be pulling the items forward in time rather than creating them whole cloth, which explains the decent taste but raises a number of additional questions._

He gestures for her to take a seat in the back room. She settles on the edge of the sofa, and it’s strange to see her there instead of Crowley, but she’s sitting so upright that she barely contacts any of the same areas as Crowley anyway.

Aziraphale goes to his own chair and takes a sip of tea to stall for time.

Harriet, who is very accustomed to filling awkward conversational space, puts her talent to use. “Thank you very much for reaching out. Warlock’s been in a mood for months – you know how preteens are – and I think it would mean the world to him to see Nanny again. He doesn’t talk about it, but I’m sure he misses her.

Aziraphale does _not_ , in fact, know how preteens are. He goes to the more immediate question: “However did you find the bookshop? And so quickly?”

He can’t keep _all_ the accusation out of his voice, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “I was in town anyway for Christmas shopping. And I was so close by when I got your email. I saw your address in the signature and I thought, I might as well just come see you in person. I wasn’t sure who would be writing on behalf of Nanny, but of course, this makes sense. You’ve – changed, quite a bit.” She ducks her eyes at her rare _faux pas_. “I mean, you look well.”

“Ah, yes,” says Aziraphale, trying to take in several bits of information at once. The _signature?_ He doesn’t sign his emails – there isn’t even a pen, he doesn’t think, although maybe there’s some physical attachment to the computer of which he’s unaware. He supposes it must be Crowley’s doing*. He’ll have to ask about that later.

* _When Aziraphale first acquired the ancient computer to do his accounts and maintain communication with rare booksellers – who so often wanted to correspond in writing and yet had some modern aversion to the perfectly good postal service – he turned to Crowley for advice. Crowley did something complicated, or perhaps multiple complicated things, and declared the computer ready for use. Aziraphale’s been able to fire it up around once a month ever since and do what needs doing. He’s lucky Crowley has such a good head for these things**, the present business with the ‘signature’ notwithstanding._

 _**Crowley does not, in fact, have a good head for these things, or even much of one at all. He typed some things into the box, located an email client, muttered some polysyllabic words to impress Aziraphale, and believed that he’d done a bang-up job, so of course he had. He_ did _deliberately change the alert noise to a distressingly loud duck quack; to this day Aziraphale is under the impression that it came that way, and Crowley sometimes ‘accidentally’ leaves the computer on just to see Aziraphale’s face when it goes off unexpectedly._

The initial email was simple. He wasn’t sure what would be more odd: a message from a random stranger, or one from a gardener who’d always been very careful to avoid seeming attached to the nanny in any way. It would be strange for their characters to know each other now, wouldn’t it? And even if there isn’t much of a cover to keep, anymore, old habits die slowly. So he simply said he was writing on behalf of Nanny Ashtoreth, and avoided putting any name at the bottom, much as the etiquette breach pained him. It seems the computer placed in his address anyway.

That’s all quite a bit to process, so he focuses instead on the _you’ve changed_ and begins stammering out something resembling an explanation. “Well, I shaved, you see – obviously you can see – and lost a bit of weight.” He tries to remember what else he used to change for the disguise. “The, ah, the hair was easy. And being indoors does wonders for the skin.” He sits back – was that all? Oh – “Dental surgery!” he blurts out. Is that it? Is she satisfied? He watches her closely.

She just gives him another winning smile and nods. “Indoors suits you.”

He exhales in quiet relief. He managed it perfectly. Shows Crowley for implying he can’t lie well under pressure.

“I _am_ a little curious about the name – what does the A stand for?”

His brain shrugs and supplies no other ideas than the honest truth. “A-Aziraphale. Ah – Francis is a, a middle name.”

“I thought that would be the Z.” She says _zee_ – Americans*.

* _Having learnt most alphabets right when they were created, Aziraphale has no reason to hold such strong opinions on these matters – the Latin alphabet is itself a recent invention by his standards. Yet hold them he does. These small moments of consummate Britishness have always been integral to his character, and one might fairly suspect Britain itself formed to match Aziraphale, rather than the other way around. One might not entirely be wrong._

“I – I have two middle names,” he says, feeling both caught out and gratified he skipped his first impulse, which was _Zfrancis_.

“Oh, I love that. We almost did that for Warlock. But Thaddeus and I had a hard enough time agreeing on one. The nurse at the hospital was so kind to help us out with the first.”

 _Kind_ is not the word he’d use for the Satanic nuns – he only knows one _kind_ infernal being – but he says nothing.

“I get why you’d go by Francis at work,” she continues. “That first name is – it’s nice! It’s just – a lot.”

He nods, banking on silence as a safety mechanism.

“So. You were interested in having Warlock over for dinner? Any day in particular?”

“Our plans are rather up in the air,” he says truthfully. “Whichever works best for you.”

“I’ll have to look at our schedule.” She sighs and runs a hand over her face. Part of being on the staff was seeing her off-hours, with the tiredness she could never show the oil execs or the ambassador from France. That tiredness lay there in her now, emanating quietly from every line. “You’d think the holidays would be _less_ busy at work, but it’s never that way for Thaddeus, is it?” Her smile this time is small and meant for him specifically.

She used to wander on the grounds, he remembers, when she needed an escape. In character, it was easy to offer her words of wisdom and cheer. He didn’t think she ever quite believed him, but she seemed to find it useful. It’s hard to reach for those overwrought aphorisms now, though. He’s spent these last months basking in the freedom of not needing to play a character ever again, and he can’t quite force himself back into it. “I know he would want to be home at Christmastime, if he could,” he says finally. It’s not entirely _wrong_. Thaddeus gets tired, too, or at least he did back then, and he did care for his family deeply, if in his own way.

Harriet looks appreciative, if not convinced. “We’ll see how it works out this year. How about I email you when I know, or call?”

“Ah, yes.” Aziraphale scrabbles for a pen. “Let me give you my number –”

“It was in your signature,” she says. What sort of thing _is_ this signature? What else does it have? His true age, his hair color, his corporation’s blood type? It must not go into the whole _Principality Aziraphale, Former Guardian Of The Eastern Gate, Self-Exiled From Heaven But Somehow Not Fallen, Consorts With Demons Or At Least One Demon In Particular_ bit – he imagines Harriet would have commented on that.

“I’ll let Cr – Ashtoreth know.”

Her eyes go warm. “I wish _my_ husband were so thoughtful.”

“Yes,” he says, because he wishes Thaddeus were thoughtful too. It’s what Harriet deserves.

“And it’s so nice of you, reaching out like that for her. I’m guessing she found it difficult, but she shouldn’t. Warlock will love to see her.”

“I rather thought so. Ashtoreth will love to see him, too.”

Her eyes brighten with a sudden thought. “I always wondered whether _Ashtoreth_ was a last name or a first. But it makes sense, now. Ashtoreth Fell, yes?”

His brain goes _How do_ you _know about the Fall?_ and then _What?_ and then abandons him completely.

“You didn’t have to go to those lengths to hide that you were married, you know. It wouldn’t have been a problem. We kind of knew, anyway? Or at least, that you were together.”

His brainless mouth manages to stutter out a few syllables: “You… you did?”

“Of course,” she says. Now the warmth is in her tone, too, it _is_ her tone, it’s that piece of human goodness that calls out to Aziraphale’s angelic nature, although he doesn’t understand anything else that’s happening. “No offense, but it’s pretty obvious to anyone that sees how you are around each other. It always made me happy, to know there were relationships like that out there. I guess you could say it gave me faith.”

Harriet stands up, seeming to see that he’s overcome.

“I have to go now – more Christmas presents to buy. But I’ll call you when I know more about the schedule.”

He follows her to the door and unlocks it, still in a daze.

“I’m really not sure how that will all work out. Warlock wants to spend time with some friends this month, too, and I haven’t decided yet when, or even if I’ll let him. I think I will, though. It’s a trip, but it’s nice to see him making friends on his own.”

Aziraphale nods.

“Strangest thing, though – his friends live in _Tadfield_. What are the chances? Oh, but you won’t know – that’s where I gave birth to him. Little hospital on the edge of town. Small world, I guess.” She waves and exits with a bounce in her step.

So. He has no idea what to make of _that_.

He locks the door yet again and returns to his tea, contemplates it for a long moment, and then dumps it out in favor of a fresh mug of cocoa. Settles at his desk and stares blankly into nothing.

The whole time. The whole time the Dowlings and their staff, probably everyone in the whole estate, thought he and Crowley were _together_. And it changed… _nothing_.

The world spun on. No one was reported. Neither Heaven nor Hell came bashing down their door.

Of course, other angels and demons were always more oblivious to social cues than humans. Heaven could have been surveilling Aziraphale’s Crowley-thwarting efforts (although Aziraphale now suspects they never watched that particular project at all, never cared, were only happy to have him out of the way) and seen nothing amiss where humans saw (truthfully, perceptively) a long love affair.

But it _does_ make Aziraphale wonder how much more he could have got away with. If he could have left rooms a little more slowly when Crowley walked in. Could have gone to visit the main house with fewer ridiculous excuses. Could have dared to stay by Crowley more, hidden from her a little less, let their hands brush through the ridiculous (gorgeous) long gloves she wore more often than not.

He’s still turning the morning over in his mind when Crowley walks in, late in the afternoon. He flops bonelessly onto the sofa and Aziraphale smiles fondly – it really is such a contrast from Harriet’s upright pose. Crowley there just seems _right_ , like the spot was made for him*. In a way, Aziraphale supposes it was.

* _The sofa, at this point, has grown very accustomed to a vaguely-human-shaped snake taking up residence on its cushions. Like everything in the bookshop that belongs to Aziraphale, it loves Crowley immeasurably and believes its job is to welcome him in any way it can. Over time there’s worn a metaphysical groove, like a physical dip might form on an ordinary sofa, which Crowley fits into perfectly without quite understanding what or why. He only knows the bookshop feels absurdly comfortable and the sofa even more so. The sofa was thrilled when, after the Non-pocalypse, Aziraphale sat next to Crowley deliberately for the first time; not so thrilled with the glacial pace of everything since then. It can’t understand why they’re still so apart despite being so together and rather wishes they’d just get on with it already._

“I’ve heard from Harriet Dowling,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley sits up.

“She thinks Warlock would love to see you. She’s checking their calendar, but she’ll be in touch about Christmas dinner.”

Crowley’s mouth hangs open just a little. “I – that’s…”

“Good, right?” Aziraphale asks carefully.

A grin blooms on Crowley’s face, slow at first but certain. “Yeah. Definitely good.” A moment, then: “Ah, angel… what are we going to _make?”_

Aziraphale frowns. He hadn’t actually got that far yet. “Hmm. That’s not a bad question. I don’t suppose you have any ideas?”

“Cranberry sauce,” says Crowley immediately, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“Yes, yes, we all know that was one of yours. I suppose you’ll want to leave it in the shape of the can?”

“Ah, you spoil me, angel*. Warlock’s used to huge spreads, though, remember? Don’t know how we can compete with that without a little, you know, _cheating_ , and you hate miracle food.”

* _A minute into the conversation and Aziraphale has already earned two ‘angel’s. His heart goes warm at the soft dip in Crowley’s voice when he says it. It may have started as a factual descriptor, but it became fond quite a long time ago – Aziraphale would dare to say as far back as Rome._

“I could survive a miracled meal if I needed to, for him.” _For you._ “Anyway, he’ll still have his real Christmas dinner on the day, with his parents. We’re just shifting ours a bit. If ours is before theirs, he’ll need to save room, don’t you think? And if it’s after, I’d imagine he’ll be feeling a bit full for days.”

“That boy does not _ever_ feel full.”

“All the same. I’ll look into it, I know I have some recipe books around here somewhere – I don’t suppose it would be sporting if we were to order in? I think the humans have some taboo against it, but need that apply for us?”

“Yeah, you might be right.” Crowley is hesitant, and Aziraphale thinks he knows why.

“We’ll impress him, either way. I’ll make sure of it.”

Crowley smiles a little.

“Now – I suppose we should acquire some more gifts,” Aziraphale adds.

“Depends. You think he’s been naughty or nice this year?”

It’s a teasing question, so Aziraphale reacts the way he’s supposed to. “I should hope he’s been nice! Anyway, I didn’t think you’d be in the habit of rewarding the _nice list_.”

“Nah, c’mon, I’m rewarding him if he’s _bad_. Maybe I should question a few of his teachers.”

“Oh, honestly.”

“Remember we used to do Saint Nicholas Day?”

Aziraphale can’t hold back a fond smile at the memory. With Thaddeus and Harriet so busy putting in holiday appearances, running Christmas at the Dowlings’ always fell largely to the staff, and Warlock himself to Crowley (and, by extension, Aziraphale). They’d managed to instill him with a number of… _eclectic_ holiday traditions. He’d believed in Father Christmas until around age eight, but with a whole host of other characters besides.

 _“Were you naughty this year?”_ Crowley (as Ashtoreth) would say, and Warlock would nod eagerly, wanting to make her proud.

 _“Were you nice this year?”_ Aziraphale (as Francis) would say, and Warlock would nod shyly, maybe whispering, _“Sometimes. Really I was,”_ wanting the gardener to think well of him but not wanting his nanny to overhear.

Warlock received his piece of coal each year with genuine thanks, excited to burn it (Crowley did away with any dangerous byproducts) or splash it into the creek (Aziraphale miracled it out with no environmental damage). He also enjoyed the small garden crafts Aziraphale made him out of twigs and stems, earthy depictions of creatures that he kept on his windowsill for months. (Aziraphale’s commitment to character was top-notch, and anything he could approach as What A Gardener Would Do*, he did.) They also collected more complex gifts for him – spinning planet lights and music records and warm clothing in just his size that he somehow never seemed to outgrow, no matter how much the rest of his wardrobe was forced to change.

* _What He Thought A Gardener Would Do. The most stereotypical gardener in the entire world would have dismissed Aziraphale’s Francis character as “A bit cliché, really,” had she been aware of him and not living in Manchester at the moment, breeding prize tulips._

Some of these gifts came on Christmas, but it was annoying to plan around the token family moments Thaddeus inevitably crammed into Warlock’s day. (A field trip, a photo op, dinner if he was home, the gift exchange he always told Harriet to go ahead and do without him.) So Crowley and Aziraphale often did theirs on Saint Nicholas Day instead.

First came the Eve (which, Aziraphale now realizes, was the very night before this, the night they spent at the Christmas market), when they would sneak downstairs (Aziraphale in from the garden) and leave out items for Saint Nicholas. Aziraphale usually took the lead on this one, and the yearly letter from Warlock was in his handwriting, the hay for the reindeer procured by angelic miracle. Crowley, meanwhile, concerned himself with Krampus. This was a figure picked up from their time in Austria; the humans said he came each year to capture naughty children and drag them down into Hell. The first time Crowley mentioned this to Warlock, his eyes went wide and he said, _“Cool.”_ That sealed their fate for the next four years.

 _“If you’re naughty this year,”_ Crowley would tell him at bedtime in her soft Scottish brogue (Aziraphale listening outside the doorway), _“Krampus will come and visit your enemies in the night. They will be too frightened to say a word against you ever again. And one day, if you are as terrible as I know you can be, Krampus will rise to your command and join your legion as you take over the Earth.”_

 _“I don’t know if I want the Earth,”_ said seven-year-old Warlock, _“but can Krampus visit Dimitri? His dad’s the Russian ambassador and every time he comes over he’s mean to me.”_

 _“You shall have the Earth,”_ Crowley answered, _“and Krampus shall have Dimitri.”_

As far as Aziraphale knew, Krampus never visited Dimitri, but he suspected Crowley did – if Dimitri’s change in demeanor during their next visit was anything to go by. He didn’t seem so much frightened as contrite, but he never bullied Warlock again.

“Why didn’t you ever dress up as Krampus? I did Saint Nick,” says Aziraphale now.

“I did,” Crowley answers.

“I meant with Warlock.”

“I didn’t want to _actually_ frighten him,” Crowley says, almost under his breath.

“He would have thought it was ‘cool’.”

Crowley smiles fondly. “Yeah. Yeah, he would have.”

Crowley’s Krampus appearance is another memory Aziraphale won’t be forgetting anytime. He has the impression Crowley used the look numerous times over the centuries – especially given the magnificence of the costume, heavy and real in a way that made it seem not entirely woven from miracles alone. But Aziraphale was only ever there the once, in Austria, well into the sixteenth century.

Aziraphale had taken the role of a woman at the time. He* was playing a part in the festivities, one of the characters on the side of good – in all honesty, he hadn’t been paying much attention to the tradition until he was thrust into the middle of it. (This was something of a theme with him.) As far as he knew, it was something related to their goddess Perchta, and that was all he needed to know.

* _Aziraphale has never felt the pull of the word_ she _the way Crowley sometimes does, and lands on_ he _mostly out of the comfortable habit of practice. He has a tendency to forget the shape he’s wearing, and has often found himself in no end of trouble by saying the wrong thing and blowing his fictitious backstory to bits._

The streets were in chaos. Wild hooligans ran across them, and just when Aziraphale thought they had all passed, there would be another shout and more would come from a different direction. They all wore the most elaborate costumes, horns and fangs and snouts; Aziraphale could see how a human might find them very frightening indeed. And they carried switches that they were happy to use on anyone they could get hold of, rather more enthusiastically than most ceremony required. Aziraphale was finding it annoying to fend them off, and after he received his first welt – he! An angel of the Lord! – that he had to heal, he resigned himself to a steady stream of little diversion miracles until he could find a place to himself.

Eventually he made it far enough that the humans were nowhere in sight, a little ways into the forest at the edge of the town. He slumped against a tree and caught his breath*. He’d grown long hair for the occasion, loose and down his back as the others wore theirs, and it was in a state of disarray.

* _He didn’t strictly_ need _breath, of course, but he was a creature of habit, and he was loathe to let a chaotic pack of humans force him to end a streak that was several years running._

He had just raised his fingers in a snap to fix it when –

_“Well, what do we have here?”_

It was Crowley, and he sounded _delighted_. Aziraphale turned and started to put on his indifferent expression, which stopped when he saw – _“Good_ Lord _.”_

 _“Not exactly.”_ Crowley was dressed exactly as the human revelers, but his was finery compared to theirs. The suit was of fur, the dark layered over the light, with an added touch of black feathers sewn in at certain points. The mask was incredibly lifelike, with four great towering horns and sharp, fearsome teeth. There was a bell tied around his wrist.

 _“Did you make that mask yourself?”_ Aziraphale asked, trying not to sound impressed and presumably failing.

 _“You could say that,”_ Crowley answered, amusement darkening his tone, and before Aziraphale could ask, the mask’s features were melting inwards and –

Ah. Not a mask at all. He really should have seen that coming.

Crowley’s face became gradually recognizable, but there was still an edge to it that wasn’t normally there. Something that felt _not-quite-human_ even more strongly than the golden eyes. The fangs seemed longer than usual and still as sharp as ever; the bones shifted to create more points and hollows in his face; the ears perhaps pointed. The horns remained.

Aziraphale should have found it ugly. He did not.

 _“Didn’t think I’d find you participating in all this,”_ said Crowley.

 _“I’m not, really. I suppose I didn’t know what I was getting into. And you –”_ Aziraphale’s eyes widened. _“You’re out there running_ with _them, aren’t you? Beating innocent people?”_

 _“Oi, do you see a switch?”_ Crowley spread his hands, making the bell on his wrist jingle. It had been a perfectly reasonable question to ask a _demon_ , but Aziraphale still felt sorry, and in recent centuries it was becoming more and more difficult to push that sort of guilt away. _“Besides, they’re just having fun. They know what they’re getting into.”_

 _“_ I _didn’t,”_ said Aziraphale petulantly, and Crowley’s entire demeanor changed.

 _“Did someone hurt you?”_ he said in a near-growl, straightening up, his eyes flashing in a way that they never did when he looked more human and less demon.

Aziraphale shouldn’t have liked it.

He really, really shouldn’t have.

 _“I’m fine, really,”_ he managed. _“Healed up right away. But it was so tiring, making sure no one noticed me. I came out here to get away.”_

 _“It_ is _hard not to notice you,”_ Crowley murmured. The words could well have been a compliment or a criticism. The tone was… _not_ a criticism.

In some way, just then, Crowley seemed somehow closer to the surface of himself. Aziraphale wondered if it was because of the form, or the night’s revelry, or his own imagination. But in the moment, it was hard not to notice Crowley, either – and it was difficult to look away. (If Aziraphale were to be honest with himself – and he rarely was – it had always been hard to look away from Crowley. He found it easy to dismiss that fact, though, because it had been that way for him since Eden, and it couldn’t _mean_ anything if it had been there from the moment they met… right?)

 _“I don’t care if you can heal it,”_ Crowley said, _“they shouldn’t touch you. I’ll find them. Whoever did it.”_

 _“Don’t,”_ said Aziraphale, making a show of protesting, inwardly pleased. _“It isn’t worth it. You might get into trouble, and anyway, you’re right. They didn’t mean it. It’s just.. a bit of fun.”_

It occurred to Aziraphale that they haven’t talked about work yet, not at all. It used to be the first thing he would establish upon seeing Crowley: _Are you here on assignment? For what demonic work?_ Once they had the Arrangement, there was an added dimension: _Does it line up with mine? Where will you be next? Should we make a plan – but say it gently, gently, don’t dare be plain about it_. But over time they would more and more frequently end up somewhere else afterward, having a drink, seeing a play, suspended in time until the work came crashing back in.

Aziraphale wondered if he could get away with not mentioning the work at all. Just this once. If he could just – _ignore_ it, only a little longer, only not to put that dreadful pall over proceedings.

Well, they were going to spend some of the evening together _anyways,_ he wasn’t a fool, he knew that by now. Perhaps he could just… save the work bit for the end?

And Crowley was offering to find the human who had hurt him, to get _revenge_. Very demonic, not proper at all, but… _sweet_ of him. Though Aziraphale couldn’t well say that. _“Thank you,”_ he said instead.

Crowley loomed closer, as if he were about to push Aziraphale back into the tree ( _shut it, I’m a demon, don’t thank me_ ), which Aziraphale also should have hated and decidedly did _not_.

Aziraphale didn’t flinch, didn’t put on a show of flinching – stared back serenely, which seemed to throw Crowley. His corporation’s heart racing, he blinked very slowly and tilted up to look at Crowley. Crowley darted a glance at his bare throat.

And Aziraphale had been so careful, always so, _so_ careful, to throw this – _sensation_ away as soon as he felt it, to put in distance when what he wanted was _closer_. But they had been Arranging for centuries now, and Crowley had never tried to cross that line. He wouldn’t cross it now.

If nothing would happen, if it was only this, why break the moment? Why not enjoy it?

Crowley’s gaze dragged like a physical thing on his skin. Aziraphale didn’t mean to react but he felt his breath coming faster, his lips part, blood rushing dizzily. When it grew too much, when he had to look away, he cast his gaze downward and –

 _“Are those_ your _feathers?”_ he asked, seeing Crowley’s costume anew.

Crowley took a moment to answer, his stare slow to move. _“Ah… yeah. Actually. What I had on hand, you know. Or – on wing, as it were.”_

 _“Oh, they’re lovely,”_ Aziraphale breathed. And he didn’t mean to do it, moved without thinking, nothing like the conscious movements he’d done before to draw Crowley’s attention – but he reached out (not far, there wasn’t much space between them at all) and caressed one of the feathers on Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley drew a shuddering breath and Aziraphale snapped his hand back. His was sure his face was white, or maybe red; his blood felt nowhere and everywhere at once. He couldn’t just _touch_ someone’s feathers, attached or not, but Crowley didn’t look violated. He looked –

And the feather was so _soft_. Inky black at the edges but iridescent, other colors shimmering beneath the surface. If it felt like that _there_ , what would his wings be –

Aziraphale stepped back, and without much room to go, drove his back into the tree and then had to pretend he’d meant to do it.

_“So, ah, your character. The costumes. A demon?”_

Crowley took a visible moment to come back to himself. _“Er… yeah, sort of. I suppose. As much as the humans know what a demon_ is _. Punish them for their naughty deeds, though I think that’s more excuse than anything. The winter festivals are always like this, aren’t they? Go wild. Let your inner_ chaos _out.”_

Aziraphale didn’t think Crowley did it on purpose, the way he spoke the final sentences with a show of his teeth, but it was still distracting. The words put him in mind of Saturnalia. _“Yes, I suppose they are. Winter does make the humans restless.”_

_“Not much to do in winter besides the celebration stuff. Eat, drink, be merry.”_

_“Do you suppose one can, around here?”_ Aziraphale asked, feeling bold. _“Eat, I mean. I haven’t a clue what’s in the area.”_

Crowley blinked slowly. _“I passed an inn down the way. Hungry, angel?”_

The _angel_ came with a small smile, fond and giving Aziraphale that twisty feeling it always did. _“Quite,”_ he answered. _“Lead the way.”_

He didn’t _mean_ to brush their arms together as Crowley passed him, but he did, the bell on Crowley’s wrist ringing as they touched. And although he immediately pulled his arms tight to his sides and berated himself for it in his head, he couldn’t quite regret it. It was fine, right? Nothing had happened. This was _Crowley_. This wasn’t dangerous. (He wanted it to be a different kind of dangerous. And then he immediately suppressed that thought as far down as it would go. He was quick at that; he’d had a lot of practice.)

Crowley brought him to the inn, and Aziraphale did what he could over supper to coax that genuine laugh from him. Humans that passed them kept doing a double take at Crowley, whose face was out of costume and yet who still filled them with a sense of dread they couldn’t explain. Aziraphale watched with no end of amusement. More thoughts came: _I’m the one here with him, I’m the one who understands what he is and who he is and what that means, you can all be scared of him and run, that’s all right, because I’m not and I’ll keep him._ He shoved them down as far as they would go until they stopped coming.

Crowley misunderstood the look Aziraphale gave at a passing human in demon dress. _“Here,”_ he said, already tipsy. He yanked the bell off his wrist with some difficulty and held it over Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale stayed very still as he tied it on. _“If anyone tries to hurt you again, shake this and I’ll find you. I’ll handle them.”_

Aziraphale was a Principality and certainly could _also_ handle ‘them,’ but he didn’t say as much, not with something of Crowley’s on his wrist like a forbidden claim. He took a deep sip of his drink and turned the conversation to other matters, feeling the cord on his arm like a promise.

Hours into the evening, several glasses past drunk, Crowley started snapping his teeth at the passing humans. Aziraphale laughed until everything felt light.

They didn’t talk about work at all, not once. Aziraphale didn’t even try.

It’s probably for the best, Aziraphale thinks now, that Crowley didn’t try his Krampus form on Warlock. Warlock may have loved the strange and spooky, just like his nanny, but he _wasn’t_ the Antichrist, and was probably as susceptible as any to primal human fear.

“Could have done it on Halloween,” Crowley muses. Aziraphale lifts a hand to tap him lightly on the arm – not quite enough to be a proper smack – and leaves it there when he’s done, because he can now. How long did he spend yearning after this before he even knew what he was yearning for? And now Crowley’s right there, in front of him, and they’re free…

And he can’t just hold him. Not yet. Because Crowley might run away, and Aziraphale has several things to prove before he takes that final risk.

Speaking of which – Aziraphale concentrates for a moment, and something appears on the shelf behind him. He shifts deliberately to put it in Crowley’s line of sight.

Crowley stands. “What is –” He goes over to it and picks it up. “Ah.” Aziraphale doesn’t know what to make of the tone, like he’s surprised but not surprised, like he’s struggling between many thoughts all at once. _Please don’t call me on it,_ Aziraphale thinks fervently. _Just take it. Take everything I can give you until the day I can give it without pretense._

Crowley rings the bell. It’s small, and its sound unexpectedly loud, spilling out into the whole of the quiet shop. He turns back to Aziraphale and holds it up.

“Familiar?”

“Of course,” says Aziraphale. Crowley has a knowing look, like they’re in on the memory together, and Aziraphale’s just relieved he isn’t saying _You made this, why did you make this, will you stop_. “I lost it in the woods, a week after. It was very upsetting. I didn’t notice until I was three towns away.”

“It…” Crowley hesitates, not meeting his eyes. “It’s supposed to go somewhere in particular, if I remember right.”

Aziraphale hesitates too, not understanding until he sees Crowley’s gaze on his wrist. _Oh._ “Yes. Do you suppose I should keep it on _you?_ You _do_ get into trouble.”

“You are _absolutely_ worse than me,” says Crowley through a laugh, and Aziraphale starts to retort, but Crowley speaks softly: “Let me?”

Aziraphale would do anything that was said to him this way, by this person. He holds out his wrist, turning it upside down so the pale underside is exposed. “Of course.”

Crowley kneels beside him to affix it. Aziraphale looks on, heady with love and want and gratitude. It seems an age and yet not long enough before Crowley finishes and returns to the sofa. “There. Now I can find you when you get yourself in a mess.”

“Like you’ve had difficulty before,” Aziraphale murmurs, which is supposed to be a joke but comes out as something more. It’s unfair of Crowley, really, to imply Aziraphale is _less skilled_ at keeping out of trouble, just because he’s done so much of it _on purpose_ to lure Crowley out of the woodwork. Is part of it that he likes getting rescued, that the sight of Crowley in gallant savior mode makes him swoon? Of course. He was stubborn enough to deny that for years, but there’s no getting around it now. The other part, though, is that _after_ he’s rescued, it’s always seemed more acceptable to pour out his gratitude for Crowley to see. To do things to thank him, where Crowley can’t object on basis of _charity_ , because as demonic morality goes, it’s properly _transactional_. (It’s never actually _been_ that way, and Aziraphale’s sure they both know it, but he also knows well that plausible deniability is one Heaven of a drug.)

Aziraphale doesn’t need to do that anymore, though. He doesn’t need to throw himself into danger* to justify doting on Crowley.

* _Not that danger hasn’t, historically, often thrown itself at_ him _, but it’s easier to say it was all by design, notwithstanding the mountain of evidence to the contrary._

He just needs to get them both to a point where Crowley can freely accept it.

He looks at the bell on his wrist, and thinks of Crowley coming to save him, and smiles. As if Crowley hasn’t saved him in a much deeper way, mind and soul, when he needed it most. As if he doesn’t want to do everything to save Crowley in return, from pain and from fear and from discomfort.

Aziraphale _could_ miracle up another bell to put on Crowley’s wrist, so they can save each other, but it doesn’t feel right – not like this. One day, if Crowley will allow him, Aziraphale will take two matching pieces of jewelry and slide one onto Crowley and keep one of his own, but it won’t be today.

And they won’t be bracelets.

So Aziraphale smiles, and leans back in his chair as he listens to Crowley regale him with stories about years of costumed games he missed, and every so often he taps his finger on the bell. It rings out in counterpoint to Crowley’s voice. It rings like salvation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Warlock reunion and his Tadfield friends were planned from the beginning, but I didn’t know this was going to turn into a Mistaken For Married story until after Harriet started talking to Aziraphale. What was I going to do, resist? ;) More of that coming up, for sure. (Just wait ’til Crowley finds out...)
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘christmas crackers’: Crowley has some questions for an Occult Practitioner. Aziraphale, both past and present, takes entirely too much joy in a gift he can hide things in and then blame on chance. Crowley likes things that explode, which can go wrong in no possible way.


	7. Christmas Crackers

Crowley dreams for a long time and wakes up with his heart clenching. Sitting up in bed, he struggles to calm it, but it’s like wrestling a shadow. He hates that this corporation carries his panic tattooed on all its unnecessary organs. For someone who doesn’t even need to breathe, he has a lot of difficulty sometimes in catching his breath.

What finally calms him is the sight of the window across the room. The blackout curtains are still there, but he shortened them enough that they barely brush the sill, so he can still see the objects sitting on the ledge in front of it. He’s growing quite the collection: the snowglobe, of course, and to either side of it the wooden ornaments, Warlock’s rocket ship on the right, Crowley’s own nativity on the left.

These things were all (well, maybe not the rocket ship) brought here by his accidental miracles, and they should terrify him, but somehow they don’t. Maybe it’s what they carry: Aziraphale’s words of friendship; the promise of seeing Warlock again; a repaired memory of something broken. They give him a paradoxical strength as he faces the terror of everything else.

The bell, yesterday, lingered on Aziraphale’s wrist long after it should have disappeared. Aziraphale had said he lost it after a week the first time (meaning he _kept_ it for a _week_!) and was upset by it; he’d let Crowley _tie_ it _on him_. If that wasn’t catharsis, Crowley has no idea what is. And still, the bell sat, mocking him. It was still there at the end of the night, when Crowley headed home and Aziraphale waved a gently chiming goodbye.

What if they’re getting worse?

It’s possible. The lake lasted only a few hours, and the wassail bowl too – he’d glanced back over his shoulder as they left the orchard and found it gone. The candy canes stayed practically all day while Crowley avoided them, but disappeared as soon as Aziraphale apologized for leaving him all those years ago. The snowglobe and the nativity ornament, he has no way of knowing – they had miracles, one angelic and one demonic, to keep them in place. Maybe performing those miracles had tempted his subconscious, had said _he doesn’t want them to disappear, so don’t make them disappear anymore_ , which is absolutely not what he meant to say. He can’t regret keeping them, because he _wants_ them like the selfish creature he is, but he really hopes it didn’t complicate things.

If the bell really stays… what if the frozen lake had stayed? What if, as he warned Aziraphale, it had melted come spring and flooded all his precious books? Crowley’s never been able to snap them away – what if they get stuck with something even more dangerous?

Or incriminating? What if Aziraphale finds something that tells him _Crowley is in love with you, he can’t help himself, he’ll never stop so you’re going to have to leave, friendship wasn’t enough for him, now it’s time to break him into pieces?_

They’ve already danced frighteningly close to the subject with some of these memories. He doesn’t know _what_ he’d been thinking* when he tied that bell around Aziraphale’s wrist in the sixteenth century and promised to save him, said _I’ll find you_.

* _The answer is, of course, that Drunk Crowley was doing the thinking, and Drunk Crowley can’t always be said to really think at all._

There is a journal that Crowley would rather discorporate than let Aziraphale read. There is a clay tablet from Mesopotamia that says it all rather plainly, too. Both hail from the dark days of winter, and if either one appears, everything will be over.

At least in his dreams, a jumble of danger and regret and permanent miracles and Aziraphale gone forever, he saw something useful. A flash of the accident with book girl, a flash of the airbase. A flash of the moments afterwards, before he left with Aziraphale for the bus stop, when some awkward introductions were made, and book girl explained that she was not only the former keeper of prophecies, but also a practitioner of the occult.

Crowley would prefer to think his sleeping brain is very clever rather than give credit to fate (or, worse, God – ick). Whatever the reason, he knows now what he has to do.

Not until he’s sitting at his landline with his hand on the phone does the problem occur: he has no way to get in touch with her, and shouting at his phone to ‘call book girl!’ has earned him nothing but a sullen dial tone.

And then he remembers something else, which makes him tip his head back and groan.

As they left the airbase, there was a flurry of chatter from Notziraphale (his brain’s shorthand for The Woman Who Was Aziraphale’s Corporation And Now Is Not Any Longer And It’s Nice To Have Aziraphale’s More Familiar Face Back But She’s Quite Annoying When ‘Sustaining The Existence Of The Angel’ Is Not A Redeeming Factor). She introduced herself as Madame Tracy. She and Aziraphale had already exchanged information (honestly, the angel would befriend _anything_ so long as it wasn’t a customer), and she insisted on coming up to press her business card into Crowley’s hand as well, “because I’ve had enough of him in my head to know I should know you too.”

The card read:  
**MADAME TRACY  
Accomplished Seer and Medium  
Drawing aside the Veil to speak with the dear departed  
all afternoons except Thurs.**

On the back, in very small type: **  
Intimate personal relaxation and stress relief  
for the discerning gentleman  
Thursday afternoons or by appointment  
Special requests welcome, contact in advance.**

Now, he digs the card out of his desk drawer* and squints at the numbers on the bottom.

* _This being the top left drawer, which he only ever sticks his hand in without looking. He can drop anything and everything into that drawer and find it again just by grasping for the first thing he feels and believing it will be right. The drawer itself is happy to comply, so long as he averts his eyes – it’s shy about rearranging. This, of course, explains why he still has the card at all – he would have lost such a thing immediately were he actually expected to keep track of it._

The phone rings and picks up, and before Madame Tracy can draw a breath, Crowley cuts in: “I need to find that girl with the book. The – the occult practitioner. It’s urgent.”

The voice that replies is Scottish and definitively _not_ Madame Tracy. “Occult, eh? Yer lookin’ to find a witch?”

Crowley thumps his head onto the desk. Then he does it again for good measure. Then he makes his tone absurdly bright. “Hey, Shadwell! It’s Anthony. I was just, ah, looking for a Madame Tracy. She was there with us in Tadfield, gave me her card. Would she happen to be in?”

“Aye, I’ll fetch ’er.”

There’s a rustling, followed by a shout, followed by a different voice on the line, breathless: “Crowley! Is that you?”

He blinks at the strangely warm reception. “Ah… yes. You, ah, remember me, then?”

“Well, hard to forget you! Especially what with sharing Aziraphale’s thoughts for a while. And he talks about you _all_ the time, you know.”

“He… talks about me. Aziraphale… talks… to you. About me.”

“Of course! We have a standing date Wednesday mornings. He calls and lets me know how everything’s going with the shop, I update him on Shangri-La.”

“Shangri-La,” Crowley repeats, reduced to echoes. It isn’t _shocking_ that Aziraphale kept in touch – he’s always kind in that way – but it isn’t something Crowley had thought about. He wonders if Aziraphale feels obligated or if he _likes_ it. After the initial surprise, he isn’t terribly concerned. This woman is nice enough, but she doesn’t seem like prime competition for the role of Best Friend. “Look, I need to talk to the book girl. The one who was at the airbase. Long hair, glasses, brilliant dress?”

“That’ll be Anathema,” she hums.

“Great! Excellent. Do you have her number?”

“Of course! Anything for Aziraphale.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “It’s not for Aziraphale, though. He’s not a part of this.” _He’s too much a part of this. I need him not to be a part of this._ “It’s for me.”

“Hmm, well, it’s the same thing with you two, isn’t it, dear? Let me see… found it!”

She reads off the number and Crowley takes it down, then finds a place to leave off in the conversational chatter that follows. He stares at the silent phone for a moment.

He’s been friends with humans, off and on, throughout history. He and Aziraphale both. There are some things humans can never know, of course, things to hide, and there are other things humans don’t understand even when you tell them what you can. It can get complicated, too, when assignments cross with people you already know, which seems to happen often. And, of course, they age. They sicken. They die.

Considering all that, Crowley is surprised to realize he wouldn’t mind doing it again. It’s been a while since he spent time with other people, with not-Aziraphales, and while it’s never as good as with Aziraphale, it might be nice to fill the time he otherwise spends alone.

Good thing, then, that they have dinner with Warlock planned. A small step back into the world of consorting with humans.

He dials book girl – Anathema – and waits through two rings before she picks up.

“Hello?” she asks in her American-by-way-of-islands accent.

“Ah, hello,” he answers, realizing he hasn’t thought at all about what to say. _Hi, it’s that demon from the near-apocalypse? Remember when you hit my car with your bicycle?_ “It’s Crowley. Ah, Anthony Crowley. You might not remember me –”

“You’re the one with the car,” says Anathema, voice suddenly guarded. “What do you want?”

“So, I’m having a – a strange sort of problem. And I know you have some experience with the occult. I was wondering if I might run it by you.”

“Hmm.” Anathema takes her time pondering. “Aziraphale did say you’re a demon, but not the kind of demon to be afraid of.”

He’s torn between feeling insulted and – “You talked to Aziraphale???*”

* _The multiple question marks are just barely on the audible spectrum, and Anathema, without knowing why, winces and lifts her mobile a little bit away from her ear._

“Yeah, of course. We talk every few weeks. He knows so _much_ about rare books.”

“That… that is true.” He mouths _what?_ at the ceiling and indulges, just for a moment, in putting his head back on the desk. “Look, something weird is happening with my demonic powers. Subconsciously.”

“Something weird?” She sounds intrigued, despite herself.

“I keep manifesting these – objects. About once a day, for almost a week now. It’s not on purpose, I can’t feel when it’s happening, and I can’t get rid of them, but they seem to go away on their own. Sometimes. I’m worri- _noticing_ it might be taking longer, lately.”

She makes thoughtful noises of affirmation as he speaks and jumps in as soon as he’s done: “What kinds of objects?”

“Like – ah –” He struggles for the least embarrassing examples. “A wooden bowl. A bell. An entire frozen lake in the middle of the bookshop.” He’s not sure if the lake counts as embarrassing but it definitely counts as _cool_ *, so he’ll take it.

* _No pun intended. Puns are, broadly speaking, a demonic invention, but between the two of them they’ve always been in Aziraphale’s terrain, and Crowley is happy (as happy as one can be while cringing so strongly) to leave him to it._

“And do the objects themselves have any occult properties?”

“Not that I can tell. Except for how I can’t, you know –” He makes a snapping gesture and then realizes she 1.) can’t see him, and 2.) probably doesn’t know what that means anyway. “Can’t clear them away with a miracle.”

“A miracle? Is that what it’s called?”

He knows that tone of scholarly interest, has heard it on an angel more times than he can count, and knows the only way out is to satisfy the curiosity as quickly and directly as possible so they can move on. “Angels do miracles, demons do – well, I call them demonic miracles, same thing, really. Drawing on the power of Heaven or Hell. I can stop time with mine – making an object disappear should be well within purview.”

“Stop time?” She’s excited now, and Crowley knows he messed up.

“I can tell you all about it later – how about we call it payment, we can have lunch and I’ll tell you all Hell’s secrets. But if you know anything, I need to know it now.”

Anathema sighs. “Are there any commonalities among these objects? Any meaning they might have?”

Agh, he’s going to have to talk about it, isn’t he? Well. This is all going to be worth it, he reminds himself, when this madness is out of his life and it all goes back to normal, he and Aziraphale the way they’re supposed to be. “They’re all from our past. My past. I’ve been around six thousand years, so there’s a lot to draw from. And all the memories are from –” He grits his teeth and forces the words out. “They’re from winter holidays. They’re _festive._ ”

To her credit, Anathema doesn’t laugh, only sounds intrigued once more. “That’s interesting. I can look at some sources for winter magic, particularly holiday, particularly occult. There’s a lot out there. What did Aziraphale say – does he have anything useful?”

This was not a dimension Crowley thought he’d have to worry about when he made the call. “I haven’t asked him.”

“Well, you should. His book collection is –”

“Brilliant, amazing, yes, I know. And he’s normally my expert, but I can’t go to him. Not about this. I just – not yet. _Can_ you help me?”

“Of course.” Anathema’s voice goes softer. “I’ll help. Just – promise me you’ll tell him, if it… becomes necessary.”

“Yes, sure, all right.” He rolls his eyes to the ceiling. It will _never_ become necessary.

“It might help if you text me a list of the objects and when they’re from?”

“Consider it done. Anything else?”

“I’ll take you up on that lunch sometime, and maybe sooner than later – it might help if we can talk in person. About your problem, too. I’ll see what I can dig up and get back to you.”

“Thank you,” he says, because sometimes you have to say things to humans, it doesn’t _mean_ anything. “You going to be in London anytime soon? We could always meet up then.”

“I have a dinner with Newt’s family on the nineteenth. I can come see you before?”

That’s a relief. There’s no way in Heaven or Hell (or Earth) he’s driving out to Tadfield for this insanity. “Sounds good.”

“Oh, and text me the list!”

“Yup, on it.”

“And say hi to Aziraphale for me!”

He gets the impression he barely hangs up before she does, which is probably good in that he doesn’t insult the person who’s trying to help him, but bad in that he doesn’t get the satisfaction of a good hard _clunk_ in reply to that last line, which deserves it.

Now he has a little time before he’s meant to meet Aziraphale for lunch (well, for Crowley it’s more like breakfast, but let’s be honest, he isn’t going to be eating much of it anyway). He writes out the list for Anathema before he forgets. It’s a little humiliating.

**frozen lake london 1860  
wooden bowl w wassail cider kent 1649(?)  
candy canes cologne 1670  
snowglobe vienna/london 1905-6  
wooden nativity ornament dresden, mid 1400s maybe  
bell on cord, some little town in austria, 16th century, second half I think?**

Aziraphale would be better with the dates (well, between the two of them they’d come up with a better answer than either of them alone, that’s how they got the 1649), but Crowley can’t well ask _him_. His knowledge also feels barren without the little notes he’s accustomed to giving Aziraphale – _the place with that massive chimney, you know the one, and they tried to turn it into a pizza oven? And next door was that church where the pastor barely even needed tempting, just fell right into it, and we got all that mead out of the deal?_

And he’s definitely not putting what the snowglobe has inside.

He reads it again after it’s sent and hurries in a quick addendum: **cologne like cologne germany not like cologne. candy cane cologne would not be good** because he doesn’t do capitals*, just like he barely does punctuation, and it’s a point of pride that he isn’t starting now.

* _Except for to Warlock, but that’s just good nannying practice, setting a good example._

Then he rolls his neck, stretches, stands, and snaps out of his pyjamas into one of his good going-to-see-the-angel outfits.

Even if book girl does have all his answers, it’s clearly going to take time, and there’s no use waiting around.

Of course, he _could_ stay here on purpose, wait it out until he finds a solution. Keep himself and his miracles away, so that Aziraphale will be safe and blissfully unaware.

But there are a few problems with that. One, Aziraphale will give him sad looks when he returns, _wounded_ looks, why-didn’t-you-tell-me-you’d-be-sleeping looks, and Crowley’s starting to believe he might even _mean_ them. Two, he wouldn’t put it past his subconscious to keep snapping things into the bookshop anyway – the lake certainly got there before he did, and he ought to be around to do some damage control.

And three, he’s not sure he can _stand_ to stay away from Aziraphale, now that they’ve been seeing each other every day for months. He’d do it if Aziraphale asked, of course (what _wouldn’t_ he do if Aziraphale asked?), but not like this, not without a very good reason.

So he heads to the restaurant.

Aziraphale is already waiting at a table, having ordered in advance – it’s a frequent enough haunt that he knows what Crowley’s willing to take bites of. He sees Crowley and lights up. Crowley’s chest does a painful flutter.

“Hello, angel,” he says as he slides into the other chair.

“Hello! Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” Crowley lies through his teeth. Aziraphale smiles to hear it. He looks the same as always, regular hair, regular clothing, and yet – as always – he’s the most gorgeous thing Crowley has ever seen. It always hits him the first time they meet up for the day, and Crowley has to focus very hard to keep his eyes and his hands to himself. Do Not Touch The Work Of Art. He’d love to reach over and unstraighten the bowtie, sweep a hand through his hair, leave some sign of himself there*. And he wishes, as always, that they’d picked up the habit of embracing upon meeting. Some humans did that, right? Why couldn’t it be them? But it couldn’t.

* _He can’t tell for sure that the bell is gone, under Aziraphale’s long sleeves, but he can’t imagine he’d still be wearing it anyway. The real question is, did it_ disappear _, from wherever Aziraphale set it down, but he can’t well ask him that._

These thoughts, these urges, were what had nearly ruined everything, that night after their celebratory Averting-the-Apocalypse dinner at the Ritz, when he stood in the bookshop doorway, far too close to Aziraphale, and came so close to failing. When Aziraphale was _right there,_ alive and safe and _his_ (but no, not really), and all Crowley could think of was to kiss him. When he started to reach out and then the feeling of Aziraphale’s warm hand under his questing fingers brought him abruptly back to himself.

Horrified by what he’d almost done, what he’d almost ruined, he left just in time to save it. But it was a close call, and he can’t afford those – not now, when he finally has (almost) everything he’s ever wanted.

He’s thought Aziraphale wanted him before. He’s trusted that feeling and acted upon it, tipped his hand just a little at a time over the centuries, and he has always, _always_ been wrong. Aziraphale has never wanted him. He knows better than to think it again.

Crowley started this line of thought to distract him from his current situation, but now he needs distraction from the thought itself. He shifts his feet and bumps something under his chair. “What’s this?”

There goes his mouth, again, running before he can think. If he’d kept quiet, maybe he could have ignored this newest blessed miracle; as it stands, Aziraphale is watching him with anticipation, like he’s _invested_ now, and Crowley sighs.

At least he thinks to look inside the gift bag before he hands it to Aziraphale. “Huh. Christmas crackers,” he says, passing it over.

Aziraphale takes one out and examines it. “Not just any Christmas crackers.”

Oh, no, they aren’t – they are. “They’re the ones…”

“The ones we didn’t open.” Aziraphale nods.

“Back in eighteen bloody…”

“Fifty something? Didn’t we see a concert that day?”

“Yeah, it was that orchestra.”

“The one with the awful cellist?”

“Nah, the one where the string broke on one of the violins and I asked you what just happened and the lady in front of us kept shushing me so loud that everyone else started shushing _her_.”

“Ah, yes! The Hallé. 1858.” Aziraphale beams with pride at their detective work.

Crowley, for his part, suppresses a smile as he thinks how right he was, earlier, to miss Aziraphale’s help on the dates. But then his attention turns back to the Christmas crackers. He sighs. “S’ppose we might as well see what’s in them.”

“I suppose we might.” Aziraphale does one of his anticipatory wiggles, right there in his seat, yet another mark for the column of _Crowley shouldn’t find this adorable but does because he’s completely screwed._ He holds out a cracker with red wrapping. Crowley reaches for one end.

And stops abruptly, remembering there’s reason to be afraid.

These are prototypes, created in a single night by Crowley and Aziraphale in various states of impairment. The evening began with the party host demonstrating his signature invention – twisted sweet wrappers with messages inside. He kept bowls of them by the table and plied the guests with them repeatedly throughout the entire meal.

Now, it may have been a wonderful or terrible idea to show these to an angel and a demon who had just finished difficult assignments and were looking for the chance to relax and have fun. The wonder or terror of the idea largely depended on who you were – one of the humans in attendance, or one of the occult/ethereal beings perpetrating the mischief.

The ability to change the messages before they were opened was, of course, used and abused instantly. Combined with the ability to know all the secret wishes and temptations of the guests, this had the potential to be devastating.

Aziraphale mainly used it to give soppy, vague reassurances that turned out to be exactly what each person needed to hear. Crowley mainly used it to write rude notes with such stealthy references to the recipient’s personal life that no one else would have any idea why they were blushing. Their host drank an entire glass of whiskey more than he’d intended, not at all sure where these messages were coming from given he’d written and sealed the originals himself, but Aziraphale ran a soothing hand over his forehead and he soon forgot his distress (and lost a lifelong case of severe allergies, besides).

The real fun came after the humans dispersed. Crowley somehow found himself on the rooftop, Aziraphale beside him, sitting on crates and balancing the crackers into pyramids.

 _“They should put something better in them,”_ Crowley said idly, tossing a coin at the sidewalk and watching to make sure no one walked underneath it on the way down.

_“Like what, my dear*?”_

* _It really had been a long assignment, and there was an air of relief and camaraderie at being done and together. Aziraphale was positively effusive with it. This was the only_ my dear _of the decade, and even Crowley’s inebriated brain caught hold of it and trapped the memory at the highest level of preservation._

 _“Like – like – ’s just paper, right? ’S just words. What if it was, like – a_ thing _, in there.”_

_“Oh – like in a cake! Beans, charms. Coins.”_

_“Bees.”_

Aziraphale shot him a look of disapproval, soft around the edges. _“You can’t put_ bees _.”_

 _“Sure I can. Just imagine – imagine their_ faces _.”_

_“Crowley! That’s terrible.”_

_“Bzzzzzzz.”_ Crowley maintained the buzz for as long as he could but then almost fell over from laughing.

 _“But they might_ hurt _the bees.”_

Crowley grew serious at the thought. _“Didn’t think of that. … Not gonna put hornets, that’s just mean.”_

Aziraphale selected a cracker from the top of a pyramid and ran a diagnostic finger along it. _“Maybe we need more room.”_ He snapped. The crackers were abruptly larger.

 _“Brilliant.”_ Crowley scooped one up and gave it a shake. There was no sound. He frowned, concentrated, and shook it again. It rewarded him with a loud rattle. _“Here, angel, try this.”_

Aziraphale took the other end and they attempted to pull it apart. (Several tries were needed.) When it split, Aziraphale was left with the larger half. He tilted it and a tiny deck of cards fell onto his lap. Immediately his face lit up. _“Oh, they’re darling!”_

_“Humans will like that, right? Good for parlor games.”_

Aziraphale nodded.

 _“And,”_ Crowley continued, _“good fomenting when there’s extra cards there shouldn’t be, and they switch places at random. Get everyone accusing each other of cheating, great way to liven up a party.”_

_“You cursed the deck?”_

He was pouting, just slightly, in a way he probably thought was subtle. Crowley rolled his eyes. _“Well, I didn’t curse_ yours _.”_

That beaming smile came back. Satan, Crowley was weak to it. _“Let me try one,”_ Aziraphale said, and worked his own miracle with an exaggerated look of concentration.

This time Crowley ended up with the larger half, clearly by design, but there was no need to talk about that. Inside he found a very small checkerboard and a scattering of colored pegs the size of pins to go with it. He slid down from his crate onto the cement and started sticking them in. _“Are you saying you want to play?”_

 _“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”_ Aziraphale said with a sniff. _“I’m not saying anything. That was there already.”_

Crowley finished and nudged it forward until it collided with Aziraphale’s foot. It wasn’t big enough to make much of an impact; the foot was wider. _“C’mon. You know you want to.”_

Aziraphale huffed out a _very well_ and made his move.

Crowley won four games of five, of course – they weren’t nearly as even at checkers as they were at chess*. But Aziraphale didn’t seem perturbed. Eventually they turned back to the crackers and brainstormed more marvels to put inside them. Crowley compromised on the bees with dozens of alarmingly realistic fake beetles. Aziraphale, of course, wanted magic tricks. They both took turns at writing the jokes**.

* _Aziraphale had cultivated an immense catalogue of moves, gambits, and strategies in his mind, helped along by dozens of books recording famous games. Crowley was wildly unpredictable, could see an ordinary person’s plan ten moves ahead, and_ cheated. _Either of them could beat any human handily. When they played each other, there tended to be shouting, abuse of chess pieces, and things accidentally catching on fire. They had called a truce ages ago and neither was keen on breaking it._

** _Sample from Crowley, who had grown fond of the popular genre of joke dialogues wherein girls cleverly rejected their suitors: “How I wish I were that book you clasp so lovingly!” “How I wish you were, so that I could shut you up.” Sample from Aziraphale: “Why is a Christmas pudding like the Atlantic Ocean?” “Because it is full of currants.” When Crowley complained about the puns, Aziraphale countered with “Why is a candlemaker like to come to a bad end?” “Because all his works are wicked and are sure to come to light,” whereupon Crowley ceased complaining. He would be asleep by the time their work appeared in newspapers thirty years later, but Aziraphale would appreciate it enough for the both of them._

Near the end of the night, Crowley lit upon a ‘brilliant idea to make it more exciting’ and upgraded the closest pyramid with a snap. He turned to Aziraphale, who by now had also slid down onto the concrete to lean back against a crate, watching Crowley with a faint smile.

 _“This one,”_ he said, offering a cracker to Aziraphale with a flourish. A quick tug and –

Nothing happened.

 _“Wait, no, not what I meant, hang on,”_ he said, glaring at the pyramid while a confused Aziraphale tipped the empty cracker upside down and shook it. He held out a new one. _“There.”_

In retrospect, the explosion _must_ have been smaller than it sounded, if only because it sounded like the building should have leveled to the ground, which did not happen.

The wooden crates were destroyed, though, and Aziraphale had soot on his eyebrows.

 _“Crowley,”_ Aziraphale said dangerously, _“what did you_ do _.”_

Crowley was feeling himself for broken pieces absently – his real focus was on a visual assessment of Aziraphale’s well-being. The alcohol had worn from his system just enough for him to know it would be a poor idea to grab him up and start touching _him_ all over. Crowley settled for plopping down beside his seated position and examining him up close. _“Didn’t hurt you, did it?”_

_“Oh, honestly. Of course not. Is that your idea of a prank on the humans?”_

_“No! I just thought it might be nice with a little –”_ He spread his fingers dramatically. _“You know. A little pop. Bit of a show.”_

 _“I would call that rather more than a little pop,”_ Aziraphale said dryly.

 _“Hang on, I can get it right, I know I can.”_ He poised himself for another snap.

They were forcibly ejected from the rooftop twenty minutes later.

Their host was left with several piles of unopened prototypes, as well as their comprehensive babbling of ideas as they exited around him. He must have put them to good use, Crowley thinks, because the world of Christmas crackers got much more exciting over the coming decades.

And it became a habit for Crowley and Aziraphale to seek them out, where they could, almost like an accident – to find them in shops and encounter them at holiday gatherings more frequently than might have happened by chance. And if their eyes would meet across the room as they opened their Christmas crackers, and if the contents weren’t always the same thing they’d started with – there wasn’t a particular need to acknowledge it.

Crowley only ever did the bees once. It was absolutely worth it.

Now, as Crowley reaches for the red cracker in Aziraphale’s hand, he recalls those pyramids he left on the rooftop. “Wait! It might be – you know. One of the explode-y ones.”

“I assure you it isn’t,” says Aziraphale.

“But how d’you –”

“I assure you,” he says again, more slowly, “it isn’t.”

Crowley isn’t sure whether Aziraphale is using some angelic sense of his or just has an excellent memory for it, but either way, he wouldn’t lie about this. “All right, but if this gets us thrown out of the restaurant, _you’re_ miracling their memories.”

“Fair enough.”

They tug at the same time and the cracker falls open with what is, this time, just a little pop. Crowley ends up with the larger half, which is strange – the last thing he did to the lot of them was make sure they favored Aziraphale. Maybe he didn’t manage all of them?

The paper crown inside is patterned with apples. Crowley dons a baleful look but loses it as Aziraphale reaches forward and places the crown on his head, lingering to adjust it, fingers smoothing his hair. “Suits you,” Aziraphale says with a nod.

Are the contents Aziraphale’s, now? Or were they rendered unchangeable by the miracle that keeps them from being snapped away? Is this what they’d placed inside in 1858? Or did Crowley’s subconscious make some changes in transit?

He reaches back into the wrapping for the rest of the cracker’s contents and draws something out.

It’s a glass heart.

He stares at it in his palm for a long moment, too stunned to hide it. It must be one of his, then, and he’s sure that even Drunk Crowley in 1858 wouldn’t have created it on purpose, so he must have done it now. It isn't the clay tablet - or, thank Someone, the journal - and he's never seen it before, but it's incriminating all the same.

Aziraphale is looking. Crowley shoves it into his jacket pocket. Aziraphale seems – tense, anticipatory.

“I wonder where these things come from, anyway?” says Crowley weakly.

Whatever he’s said or not said, Aziraphale looks relieved. “I haven’t a clue. I suppose the humans have a factory somewhere. Do you think anything ever ends up in them by mistake?”

The conversation continues from there, the food is eaten, the day carries on. Crowley feels the weight in his jacket pocket like solid lead. He doesn’t mean to touch it, but he finds himself slipping a finger in anyway, stroking the smooth surface. This is him – this glass heart, this transparent longing, and he will be little more than sharp shards when he inevitably breaks. He can’t let himself grow attached to this object, too – it’s not like the others. It isn’t a nice sentiment. No matter how right his love for Aziraphale may feel – no matter how pure – no matter how much it seems like the very thing he was made to do –

His love is a dark, twisting thing, because it is his, and it will ruin what he lets it touch.

But it’s hard to remember that as he talks with Aziraphale.

 _No one has ever loved like I do,_ he thinks fiercely, despite himself. _What I feel for him is strong and deep and the world could turn on it, the world could be saved on it, maybe it even_ was _. And I won’t stop. Not for anything._

He’s feeling good about this resolution (one he’s made and reconsidered hundreds of times before) when Aziraphale stands to get the bill. And then his breath catches because as Aziraphale’s sleeve rides up –

He’s still wearing the bell.

Crowley reaches out with senses on another plane to feel what he placed there so long ago, the closest thing a demon can get to a blessing, the enchantment that will bring him if Aziraphale calls. It’s still intact. And Aziraphale didn’t take it off, didn’t leave it in some bookshop corner when he realized he couldn’t miracle it away, didn’t tuck it in a pocket and forget –

He kept it there, where it belongs. He bears it still.

Crowley pictures it the whole walk back to the bookshop, though it’s hidden once more, that gold cord around that lovely pale wrist, the idea that Aziraphale hasn’t rushed to be free of it. And in thinking of it he’s bold, again, letting their shoulders press together, letting himself look and smile and stay close. Letting Aziraphale in.

His heart isn’t glass. What it feels is strong enough to shatter any Earthly thing that would dare try to hold it. Only Crowley, original Serpent, demon of many dimensions, can bear or comprehend even a fraction of it. His heart holds enough secrets to put any Christmas cracker to shame, and if Aziraphale sets off something of an explosion inside it, at least it’s a pleasant one.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the Victorian jokes are real. Runner-up for one Aziraphale would appreciate: “Is there a death scene in your new drama?” “Yes, there is. The actor murders the part of the hero every evening.”
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘bell ringing’: A town’s tradition displays an interesting spin on a hot theology take, entertaining Crowley and Aziraphale to no end. In the present day, one of Crowley’s most dreaded incriminating objects appears, and Aziraphale finds himself in need of saving.


	8. Bell Ringing

Aziraphale finds himself humming as he checks his inventory of late medieval manuscripts, early morning light filtering in through the bookshop’s spotty windows. It’s one week into December, and his plan is working.

There have been tense moments, sure. Times he’s felt the whole thing was about to fall apart around him. Yesterday he risked the gift of a heart, and for one terrible moment he was certain Crowley was going to reject it, to throw it back on the table and drag everything into the open. _This needs to stop,_ he would say (Aziraphale has imagined it many times). _I don’t want it. Any of it. Stop pushing._ And Aziraphale _would_ stop – but he desperately hopes he won’t have to.

Crowley took the heart. He stayed for lunch and walked Aziraphale home, and he didn’t force space between them on the pavement. Aziraphale thinks that, maybe, that’s how it will finally happen: he’s finished with pushing Crowley away, and as Crowley relaxes enough to stop pushing _him_ away, the space between them will narrow until one day it vanishes at last.

Aziraphale wonders where handholding is located on the vast scale of Things Crowley Is Okay With. What would happen if he reached over and took his hand while they walked? Laced their fingers together? He did it on a bus, once, and Crowley only squeezed tighter. But then, it was a very stressful night. The few times he’s brushed their hands since, Crowley has startled away.

They won’t get anywhere if Crowley panics and sleeps for half of December.

He seems to like Aziraphale stroking his hair, though, which is good, because Aziraphale likes it too. (Couldn’t help but indulge it a bit yesterday, with the cracker crown, which was not the initial reason he’d chosen the crackers but proved a wonderful side effect.) Perhaps he can choose a memory to that effect for today?

It’s quite frustrating, _really_ , this ridiculous roundabout approach. But he knows that saying _Crowley, might I touch your hair?_ will only cause him to flee –

No. Worse. Crowley will say yes, because he always does, because he never denies Aziraphale anything, but he will be stiff and awkward all through it, and then _after_ it he will drop lenses over his eyes and flee. Go home and maybe not come back for days. Words are not what Crowley needs, however much Aziraphale would love to be direct about it*. Crowley needs actions. Crowley needs Aziraphale to show, day after day, that he means what he says, that he is in it for good.

* _Aziraphale is very committed to direct discussion now, and there’s no need to mention how recent a development that is. Yes, he is aware of the irony in_ him _wishing he and Crowley could just say what they mean. If this strange limbo is his penance for millennia of forcing Crowley to talk in circles around Arrangements and feelings, he will bear it… if only it ends sooner than later._

And so it is that Aziraphale, reaching for a fifteenth century manuscript and catching sight of the bell on his wrist, knows what memory he will use next.

They were in Yorkshire at the time, a town called Dewsbury. Both were presenting as noblewomen, a thing Crowley delighted in (as she often did) and Aziraphale took as a matter of course (as was his wont). They met every few days to discuss their progress on a pair of intertwined assignments. Aziraphale found her sitting on a low stone wall outside the church one night, fiddling with something in her hair, which cascaded down her back in unpinned waves. She was twisting in an attempt to see it, but even _she_ couldn’t quite manage the bodily contortion that would put it in view, so the effect was more one of a dog trying to catch its own tail. (Did snakes chase their tails? Well, evidently this one did.)

 _“Hello, Crowley,”_ he said, setting down the book he was holding and taking a seat beside her. She turned and grinned.

 _“Aziraphale!”_ She gave him a long look up and down, focusing eventually on his hair, which was intricately pinned and braided. _“Who’d you get to do that for you? Might have to borrow them.”_

 _“I’ve been learning,”_ he said. _“You know how tricky it is to miracle something you don’t understand. I confess I do still need quite a bit of miraculous intervention, but I have a grasp of the fundamentals now, at least.”_

_“It only took you five and a half millennia.”_

She was acting a bit superior for someone who had (now he was close enough to see) at least seven separate burrs stuck in her hair. He sniffed. _“Come now, you know I don’t take these roles as often as you do. And it’s so complex these days! Eve was never_ this _ambitious.”_

Crowley made a noise of concession and kept struggling. It looked painful. Before he could think, Aziraphale reached out and placed his hands over hers, gently moving them out of the way.

 _“You’ll never get them like this.”_ He took hold of a burr and wiggled it, guiding it out from its scarlet tangle, hoping that not too much of the hair would come with it. _“Why don’t you just miracle them out?”_

 _“You can’t miracle hair, it goes all flat.”_ She turned like she was trying to look back at him; he brought her head back into place with a _tsk_. _“Well, yours looks good. But I don’t like it on mine. Better to do things the long way. Didn’t think I was going to end up tumbling down the side of the bloody road into a ditch.”_

 _“Are you hurt?”_ He was on the last of them now, piling the extracts on the stone beside him.

_“Nah, ’m fine. Didn’t get run over by a horse, so I guess that’s a victory.”_

Aziraphale pulled the final burr out of her hair. She didn’t react – didn’t pull away – and he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop. He ran his fingers down through the rest, smoothing out tangles, and when that was done he found himself reaching back up to the top, sliding his fingers along her scalp to start the process anew.

It was easier to do when he couldn’t see her face. Or to be more specific, when she couldn’t see his. He didn’t have to put on something stern to stamp out any softness he felt inside. He didn’t have to hide his desire to stay here, just like this. This was fine. He was helping, after all. Helping her patch up the costume of her role. It was practically part of the Arrangement.

Crowley leaned back into it with a quiet sigh, which felt like too much. He cleared his throat.

_“Why don’t I put it up for you? It may not be up to your usual standards, but it only need last you a couple of hours. The day’s nearly done.”_

_“Go on, then,”_ she said daringly. _“Show us what you’ve got.”_

He could only smile, glad of the permission to continue, and start weaving the beginnings of braids. Her hair was as soft as fine silk. He had to keep reminding himself he wasn’t touching _her_ – not her skin, not somewhere she could feel. But even then he knew it was a paltry justification.

 _“What’s this, then?”_ she asked, picking up the book he’d left sitting beside him.

It was a journal, with covering boards of oak, bound with dark cords. _“I needed somewhere for notes. There’s so_ much _in these meetings, and I really haven’t a clue what’s going to count as the important evidence. It’s been useful for other things as well – holiday traditions, Christmas dishes, local cuisine. Try page four.”_

She turned to it and found the sketches he’d collected, images of braids and hairstyles, inspiration to use for the morning miracle that put his own hair in place. It was much easier than involving a servant – the simplest way to keep humans from mucking up an assignment was to maintain distance. He didn’t much like employing them anyway*.

* _They tended to ask awkward questions, from “Where did you get that money from?” to “Did your genitalia change overnight?”, and they could never keep the bath as warm as he could anyhow. Better for everyone if he managed alone and miraculously smoothed any suspicion people harbored about the matter._

 _“Is that what you’re putting in mine?”_ she asked.

 _“More or less.”_ He slid in a final pin and let go with no small amount of regret. _“All right, have a look at it. Does it pass muster?”_

She surveyed it through a mirror that certainly hadn’t been there a moment before. Her smile came quickly and stayed, as if she hadn’t even considered tamping it down. Aziraphale wondered what that would feel like – to be unafraid of your own expressions. _“Wow, angel,”_ she said with sincere approval. _“You’ve missed your calling.”_

Even he knew it wasn’t as good as all that – passable but uneven, knobby where he couldn’t quite get the hair to lie flat, subtly asymmetrical. But she actually seemed pleased.

 _“I’ll have to get you to do it more often.”_ She flashed him a bright grin. _“So are you going to tell me why everyone’s at this church?”_

_“Ah. It’s the Devil’s Knell.”_

_“The wot?”_

_“It’s Christmas Eve, Crowley. You’ve never been in a town that tolls the Devil’s knell?”_

She shrugged one shoulder, drawing his eye to the smooth skin along her neck. It was so vulnerable now, there in the open without her hair to cover it. _“S’ppose I’ve heard bells. Didn’t know it meant something.”_

 _“Well. Yes. It’s… tradition.”_ Only now did he realize that if Crowley didn’t know what was going on already, she was about to react to it for the first time, and he was going to have to witness it.

She sensed his hesitance. _“Tradition?”_ she said slowly, voice like liquid.

_“It’s… you know. They’re celebrating… well, you’ve heard. About the Devil. At the birth of Christ.”_

_“Heard…”_

_“They say he died,”_ said Aziraphale, very quietly.

Crowley’s face filled with delight. _“They_ what _?”_

_“They say he died! The Devil died, when Jesus was born, that’s the point, that’s why they ring the bell. Once for every year since. That’s the tradition, anyway, I don’t think they believe it literally. I heard it from an archdeacon with a lot to say on the subject, I couldn’t follow all of it –”_

_“The Devil died? So Lucifer was alive, first of all, and then when faced with the mere_ existence _of an infant Jesus, turned up his toes and shuffled off to Hell?”_

_“I… it’s figurative, Crowley, I’m sure of it –”_

_“D’ya think he was alive in Hell the whole time and then died? Or was he somewhere else first? Where do you go when you die if you already live in Hell?”_

_“Honestly –”_

_“And if he’s dead, then what the Hell are we doing, hmm? I mean, all the demon stuff. Are we following orders from beyond the grave? I mean, if Jesus killed the Devil but that didn’t change anything about what he can_ do, _’s kind of pointless, isn’t it? But if he’s proper dead, like dead and gone, who have I been talking to all this time – unless.”_ Crowley’s eyes widened further, enough for Aziraphale to see a hint of yellow over the top of one black lens. _“D’you think when Jesus died, the Devil came_ back to life _?”_

Aziraphale aimed a withering look at her, which did nothing.

_“S’ppose the Resurrection wasn’t as good as the birth in terms of Devil-killing, then. And to think! I never knew, all this time. They really don’t tell demons anything.”_

Aziraphale waited a long moment to be sure she was done, then said, _“I would instruct you to ask one of the clergy, but I wouldn’t dare inflict you upon them.”_

Crowley threw back her head and cackled.

Every human in the area went inside before the toll started, except one. This one saw them sitting there and approached. He was a gaunt man with ragged brown hair and a long goatee, wearing enough black to put even Crowley to shame.

 _“Won’t you come inside and celebrate the demise of the Devil?”_ he asked, a strange glint in his eyes.

 _“Think we’re fine, thanks much,”_ said Crowley.

Aziraphale straightened and made proper eye contact, endeavoring to be polite. _“Yes, we’ll be there in a moment. Do go on without us.”_

The human’s gaze lingered on them for too long before he turned and went into the building.

“You _can be there in a moment,”_ Crowley said, _“’m not about to burn off my feet. I am never going to set foot in a church again. Ever. In my entire existence. Wild horses couldn’t drag me in. I’d rather discorporate.”_

 _“Oh,_ neither _of us will be there, do let’s go. There must be someplace around where one can obtain a late supper.”_

They left without taking the journal, Aziraphale realizes – it was still there on the stone wall.

Maybe that’s the thing to miracle up for today. That and a few hairpins – he still remembers the ones he used in Crowley’s hair, the way they caught the light like rubies. Crowley is still asleep, he’s sure, and will be for hours, but that’s good. It might be wise to study the pages and decide what design he’d like to try. He wants to get it right.

He goes up the stairs to his rooms above the bookshop. There isn’t much there – the kitchen, such that it is, he keeps downstairs, and there’s no need of guest rooms. He does keep a room* with a large, luxurious bathtub, as well as a bedroom, though he really only uses the bed when he wants more space to stretch out while he reads.

* _Quite literally a bathroom, in that a bath is the only thing in it._

Right now he needs to be somewhere Crowley won’t just walk in – it wouldn’t do at all to be found studying this, to betray all the planning behind his plans. He sits on the bed and makes the journal appear on the bedside table with a snap.

At first, he thinks something’s gone wrong – that he’s manifested a different object entirely. But upon closer examination, it’s still the same journal. It’s just… older. Worn. Not as much as a normal book from the time would be today, but it has at least a few decades of wear on it, when Aziraphale had made it new and left it within weeks of its creation.

He lifts it up with his careful bookbinder’s hands and opens the front cover, turns the first few pages. There are his notes, his drawings, all in faded ink. But there is additional writing.

On page six, where he has written up his impression of a local lord _(He does go back and forth a bit in his speech, but there’s no reason to think he’s involved! Certainly not a threat.*)_ , a small arrow leads to a note in the margin: _Wrong about that one._ On page nine, someone has underlined the beginning of a recipe where he wrote _an absolute favorite!_ (And didn’t Crowley make that for him, once, years later?) On page twelve, a reference to _wily advers. C._ has been circled. This persists everywhere, small notes and emphases and sarcastic commentary. There’s an entry on page sixteen where he planned his precautions for an upcoming journey; at the end where he wrote, _In short: stay safe. Return._ there is a smudgy scrawl that he would almost swear is a heart.

* _Aziraphale’s own notes are in no more of a specific human language than his own thoughts, and resolve themselves into something sensible depending on the reader, which is all for the best. He’s already had to miracle away multiple headaches this week from tangling with Middle English spelling downstairs._

And then he gets to the blank pages. Rather, the pages that used to be blank.

There are notes there, too, in that same familiar handwriting _(Crowley’s handwriting)_ , but most of all there is poetry.

He skims it and catches only a few words, a heading _Of Myne Angell_ , something about _radiant_ and _refulgent_ and _lavish_ and _starréd eye –_

He slams the cover closed. Without pausing, he reaches under the bed and yanks out one of the large trunks he keeps there. Opens it. These are for storing artefacts of the past, divided by chronology – things he couldn’t place in the open but couldn’t quite bring himself to throw away. One of the trunks is entirely dedicated to trinkets from Crowley over the ages. This one covers objects from around 1200 to 1550. He’ll tuck the journal in there, where it belongs, and maybe one day, when Crowley wants him to, he’ll read what it has to say.

He can’t get _rid_ of it. The very notion pains him. He’s hoarded lesser things, over the centuries, drops of sentiment where this is a flood, and this is certainly not the place to start drawing a line.

But he can’t read it. To resist goes against everything he wants, everything he _is_ , he who has risked discorporation on numerous occasions for just a glimpse inside a rare manuscript, he who collects evidence of Crowley’s affection like a lovelorn magpie – but he can’t. It would be wrong. It might _hurt_ Crowley, and the moment he realizes that, the potent urge to continue anyway fades to distant static.

He makes room in the part of the trunk where the journal belongs and places it there. He’s just arranging everything back to his satisfaction when he spots something else: a very familiar box.

It’s fake gold, studded with fake rubies and emeralds (also fake), bearing an impressive-looking, vaguely occult inscription that translates to utter nonsense. He distantly remembers trying to open it, in the past, and not being able to, and subsequently tossing it into storage as a mystery for another day. He reaches for it now and pulls at the lid.

It opens.

He remembers more.

It _is_ in the right spot, here, because it hails from nearly the same time as the journal. He took it that very night. After supper with Crowley he returned alone to the rooms where he was staying and entered only to find someone waiting in the shadows. He wasn’t worried. Any actual angel or demon or being of power would have set off his wards on their way in; this was a human. They lunged at him. He snapped and the candles on the table sprang to life – it was the man from outside the church! The gaunt man with the goatee. Aziraphale stepped away before the man could grab hold of him, but it seemed that wasn’t the man’s intent at all. He only threw a rope across Aziraphale’s arms and maintained his wary distance.

The rope knotted _itself_ around Aziraphale’s wrists.

 _“I’ve got you now,”_ the man said grimly.

Aziraphale just looked at him. Honestly. It had been a perfectly good evening – he’d been able to see _Crowley_ , and they’d walked down to the river to visit the swans – and now this _human_ was ruining it with confrontation. _“Is this really necessary?”_ he asked, keeping his tone as mild as he could manage.

The man seemed taken aback by that. _“I… I’m onto you. I know what you are. I thought perhaps you were a witch, but I saw you consorting with your brethren. Displaying powers no human creature could ever learn. And now I have captured you,_ demon _.”_

A laugh burst from Aziraphale’s chest unbidden. He couldn’t help it. He cleared his throat and said, _“Sorry. Yes. I’m listening.”_

If anything, that threw the man even more. _“I – will cast you out from this Earth and return you to the depths of Hell! The power of God is with me, and as I cast power of Heaven to these very ropes, I will use His power to banish you forever!”_

And then there was a voice at the door, which Aziraphale had, in his haste, left open: _“Angel, you forgot your – oh.”_ Crowley took in the scene before her with a slow blink. _“Well, this looks like fun.”_

 _“Stay back,”_ said the human, _“or I will vanquish you as well!”_

 _“No, you_ won’t _,”_ Aziraphale replied, annoyed. He wrenched his arms apart and the rope disintegrated into glittering dust. _“Really, young man, you should do more research into what you’re dealing with.”_

Crowley’s face widened in a delighted grin. _“Did he use_ Holy _ropes on you?”_

 _“Yes, well, it wasn’t very well thought out,”_ said Aziraphale.

 _“Don’t you have Hellish ones?”_ Crowley asked the human.

The man blinked. _“Yes, but a binding of Hell would have no effect on a demon of Hell! I have bound him with a rope most Holy –”_

 _“And what effect do you think_ that _would have on, say, an angel of the Lord?”_

The man looked back and forth between them. Beneath the confusion, his face went white with terror. _“I know not what troubles I have found, but Lord, deliver me from evil –”_

 _“Shall I deliver him?”_ Crowley asked.

 _“It seems only fair,”_ said Aziraphale, and Crowley snapped, and the man found himself two towns over with a gap in his memory and a powerful urge to dedicate his life to helping the poor*.

* _And a small tuft of hair that would never lie in place no matter what he did to it, defying the laws of physics, because Crowley did have a reputation to maintain._

 _“Some men just aren’t worthy of the goatee they wear,”_ Crowley sighed. Then she brightened. _“Bet_ I _could pull one of those off! Think I might try it, next, what d’you think?”_

Aziraphale noticed the box in his rooms the next day, and found he couldn’t open it, and placed it with the rest of his things in one of the secret safe places he kept across the globe before there was a bookshop to protect it.

Now, the box opens and a rope throws itself at Aziraphale. At first he isn’t concerned. He wrenches his arms and –

It doesn’t move. It winds tighter. His hands are bound together, now, and the rope does not disintegrate as it did before.

He snaps, as well as he can manage. Nothing happens. He feels almost dizzy, now, which must be one of those silly quirks of his corporation, flooding him with adrenaline when there’s no need to panic, except…

There is an inky darkness spreading up his arms, underneath the skin. It is viscous stuff, sluggish and malevolent. It almost – burns?

Aziraphale remembers Crowley asking if the man had made a Hellish rope as well. He remembers the man saying _Yes_.

He curses, loudly and with feeling.

The dizzy feeling grows and he stumbles backward to sit on the bed, not entirely of his own accord. The liquid sludge creeps to his elbow. For the first time in centuries, he feels _cold_ – is this what winter feels like, to Crowley? This utter absence of sensation, this empty ache? No wonder he abhors it so. Aziraphale should do more to keep him warm.

And at that thought, Aziraphale’s eyes fill up with tears. He shuts them miserably. How is he going to get back to Crowley, through this? How is he going to come home to him?

Crowley could turn this rope to dust with a thought, as Aziraphale had done the Holy one. But Crowley isn’t here. Crowley has no reason to be.

The rope writhes, and the cool metal of the bell feels almost warm on Aziraphale’s freezing wrist, he never knew there could be so much cold in the same demonic aether that produces Hellfire –

The bell. Aziraphale’s eyes fly open. The _bell_.

There’s no reason for it to actually work. It was a flippant thing, _Ring this and I’ll save you,_ a drunken whim, a human instrument, nothing woven from stardust. Crowley won’t actually hear it.

And besides, he’s asleep.

Aziraphale rings it anyway.

It takes some doing, squirming the bell free, but when he allows the rope to slip up his arm and grip him even more, he manages it. And then he clasps his hands together like a prayer and shakes them. The bell’s been jingling on occasion anyway as he went about his day, but maybe it means something more if he does it with intent.

 _Crowley,_ he thinks. _It should be me saving you. It’s my turn, and I will. But I need you. I’ve always needed you, actually. Just – particularly right now. You said you’d find me… I need you to... Find me…_

The thoughts slip away into haze as the sludge crawls toward his shoulders. He lists sideways, hears his head thud into the wall. The cold takes him over until he cannot remember warmth, barely knows why the name _Crowley_ is on his lips, just a flash of a smile and beautiful yellow eyes and soft red hair.

An interminable amount of time passes.

Then the door blows entirely off its hinges and someone rushes in.

“Aziraphale? Christ, what – okay, okay, it’s okay, you’re okay –”

The rope is suddenly gone, not even dust, rent entirely from existence, and someone is jostling Aziraphale upright. He opens his eyes. He sees hands on his wrists, which is strange, because he can’t feel them. He looks up.

Crowley’s face looks back at him, lensless, distraught. “I can get it out, I can, hold on…”

The black sludge flows away and Aziraphale feels warmth return from his neck down, like a receding tide. The sludge pours into Crowley’s hands and vanishes as it meets his skin. When it’s all gone, Crowley draws a shaky breath. Aziraphale leans forward and drops his forehead onto Crowley’s shoulder. Their hands are tangled up in such a way he barely knows which are his own.

“Are you all right?” Crowley asks.

“Yes, I am now,” says Aziraphale, feeling like an idiot. He could have died – not discorporated but _actually died_ – from thoughtlessly opening a _box_ , and Crowley wouldn’t have found him here for days, weeks even, however long until he decided to break down the door and check. “I’m sorry.”

“ _You’re_ sorry? Fuck, Aziraphale…” Crowley’s eyes are wide when Aziraphale moves back to see them. He brings one hand up to clasp the side of Aziraphale’s face. It isn’t gentle. It keeps Aziraphale anchored, and he leans into it gladly. _Crowley is here. He came._ “Aziraphale. When did it appear?”

Aziraphale blinks. “What do you mean?”

“The rope. When did it – and where, and… we need to figure this out. And I need to stop it, I need to –”

“I kept it.”

“What?”

He doesn’t know what Crowley’s going on about, and he’s too drained to figure it out. He focuses on telling the wretched truth. “You remember the last time this happened, the man with the Holy rope.” Crowley nods. “Well, he left this box behind, and I couldn’t open it, so I thought, you know, maybe one day we’ll need it, and I put it with the other – items I’ve collected over the years, and just today I was going through some things and it came open, and I know I should have been more careful, it was silly of me, really, but here we are –”

“You kept it.” There’s something in Crowley’s tone, something grateful, almost reverent, something that makes no sense. Why does it matter that Aziraphale hung onto some random occult artefact? If anything, it’s shameful. But Crowley’s eyes close and it looks like relief from some great torment.

“Yes, I kept it. And you can tease me relentlessly about it, once I’m done thanking you. If I’m ever done thanking you.” Aziraphale raises his own hands to Crowley’s face, runs thumbs along his cheeks, laces his fingers behind his neck. Crowley’s freed hand falls to Aziraphale’s knee. “But this one’s down to me and my… unfortunate decision-making.”

“Was going to say death wish.”

“I didn’t _want_ that to happen! I thought it might come in handy one day, whatever might be inside it.”

“Right then, you and your dodgy life skills. Your utter lack of street smarts.”

“Crowley.”

“Your need to give a demon a bloody heart attack, and I’ve spent a lot of time getting my organs to obey me, all right? Almost had a riot on our hands today. You and your ridiculous…”

“ _Crowley_.” Crowley obediently stops. Aziraphale looks at him and can’t remember a single other thing to say. “Thank you,” he breathes.

“You… are… welcome,” Crowley says slowly, like a parody, but at least he says it. Then: “Seriously. Anytime. Well, don’t do _that_ anytime. Got to check and make sure you don’t have any other deadly shiny things lying about here.” He taps Aziraphale’s nose. “Bloody magpie,” he adds fondly.

Aziraphale wants to stay here, like this, forever. Close the shop, end the world, he’ll be right here with Crowley this near until the end of time. “That’s me,” he says. “You know I’ll hoard anything of a certain quality. Anything… lavish. Refulgent.” And then he regrets it as soon as he remembers where he got those words. Crowley’s eyes catch his and panic jolts through him. He covers as quickly as he can by asking: “So you enchanted the bell?”

Crowley smiles, and it takes him longer than usual to look away. “Yeah, might’ve done. Figured you’d need it.”

“I wasn’t sure if you had, but I hoped. Did you do it night before last, when you put it on me? Or yesterday?”

“Really?” He lifts an eyebrow, sees that Aziraphale is serious, and says, “Please, angel. Austria. You think I said it the first time and didn’t mean it?”

Aziraphale thought he had the tears under control, but one may be about to slip through. He looks to the ceiling and sniffs. “I really am quite lucky to have you.”

“Yeah, but you knew that,” Crowley murmurs. He’s watching Aziraphale with that close, unguarded look, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, like he’s thinking about kissing him the way Aziraphale wants him to.

Aziraphale lets himself sway closer, wondering if this is the moment. He knows he looks a mess but he doesn’t care, just narrows his world to Crowley and any sign that Crowley doesn’t want this, draws in a breath –

Crowley stands and snatches back his hands like they’re on fire, his gaze darting away. He steps back.

Aziraphale thinks some rude words, then follows them very deliberately with, _We’re being patient. Whatever Crowley needs. This is for him._ His thoughts, mostly, fall in line.

“Where’s the box, anyway?” Crowley asks, glancing around the room. He stops at the open trunk and Aziraphale remembers too late that the journal is still there, somewhat hidden but not all the way. He snaps and the trunk slams closed; the fake-gold box springs to his hand.

“Here,” Aziraphale says, “but I think we’d best do away with it, don’t you?”

Crowley takes it gingerly and sends it, scorching, into the metaphysical beyond.

“Now, that _was_ a famishing experience, do you suppose we could – what time is it, anyway? Did I wake you?”

Instead of answering that, Crowley shifts and says, “Ah, yeah, food, good idea –”

“Do I _want_ to know how fast you drove to get here?” He puts on the most disapproving look he can, which isn’t very disapproving right now – he isn’t yet done being grateful and probably won’t be for some time.

“I’ve told you, anyone on the street knows the –”

“You can’t honestly think – I’m worried about _you!_ I won’t have you wrap yourself around a pole just because I’ve done something idiotic.”

“Nah, Bentley knows what it’s doing. Didn’t break lightspeed, anyway. Not quite.” Crowley winks. Aziraphale chases him out of the room.

When stomachs* are filled and they’ve settled into the day a bit, Aziraphale drops a hairpin into Crowley’s palm.

* _Just the one, really, but Crowley never seems to mind accompanying him to eat._

“Remember these?” he asks. They’re on the bookshop sofa; Aziraphale has deliberately pressed his thigh against Crowley’s knee.

“Yeah, ’course,” Crowley says, holding it up to the light. It’s a deep ruby color, dark and glittering, not a perfect match for Crowley’s hair but a good complement.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “I don’t know if I’m still in practice – it’s hard to practice on my own. But I could give it a try.” Crowley is still looking away, so Aziraphale slides a hand into his hair, slow, tempting. (Aziraphale _does_ know how to tempt. How often has he seen Crowley at work? How often has he done it himself on Crowley’s behalf?) He brushes his fingertips down Crowley’s scalp to his neck.

Crowley tips the hairpin back onto Aziraphale’s lap. “Well, if you’re offering,” he says in that dark, liquid tone, that teasing, not-quite-flirtation.

Aziraphale bites back a smile and gets Crowley to turn. He gathers the hair into sections and smooths it out, winds it. He really did miss it long. “Lovely,” he says out loud, not meaning to, but Crowley just hums in reply.

He finishes the braids but keeps his hands there, on Crowley’s scalp, massaging in slow circles down to his neck and back up. “Good at that,” Crowley says softly.

Aziraphale takes a long time to start a reply, and when he does, he realizes Crowley is falling asleep. Has fallen asleep, now. He’s gradually sliding downward.

Aziraphale lets it happen and arranges Crowley’s head on his thigh. “My fault,” he murmurs. “I did get you up early. Rest, darling.” He runs his fingers along Crowley’s brow, down his nose, across his cheeks. Drops a kiss to his forehead. Then he picks up a book with his right hand and settles his left on Crowley’s chest as if he can anchor him, hold him, keep him safe from harm.

He would do anything for this demon. And he will. Forever and ever, into eternity. They’ll keep saving each other. He just has to show him.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” he tells him. “I’ll be here always.”

Crowley may not hear a word of it, but the tone must get through; even in his sleep, he smiles, like he knows he’s loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Narrator voice: He did _not_ know he was loved, because the angel didn't _tell_ him. But he loved the angel anyway.
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘making cookies’: Crowley panics all the way to Tadfield, where Anathema points out the obvious. Multiple 'the obvious'es. Aziraphale and Crowley have a cookie-baking extravaganza. They broach the subject of the miracles, and Crowley realizes he's allowed to enjoy himself. Of course they eat the dough.


	9. Making Cookies

The Bentley pulls up beside Jasmine Cottage at eleven a.m. – obscenely early for Crowley to be awake at all, let alone at the end of a drive. But he needs answers, and he can’t wait for them.

The sight of Aziraphale on the brink of destruction felt like cold water thrown on Crowley’s soul. Cold holy water. He’d grown complacent. Luckily, the rope hadn’t been one of his miracles, thank Heav-Hel- _Someplace_ *, but it _could have been_. Might seem out of place, given the innocuous and sentimental nature of the other miracles so far, but he couldn’t be too careful.

* _He broke a habit of six millennia yesterday when he found himself thinking a sincere_ thank you _to God. Twice: first when that terrible poison leached away and Aziraphale’s color returned as he said he was all right; second when Crowley realized the rope hadn’t been brought by his own uncontrolled subconscious after all. He’s avoided thinking it so many times before – in the pub when Aziraphale appeared, safe, and Crowley was too drunk, his mind too filled with Aziraphale to think of Anyone else; in Heaven, when he stepped into Hellfire and survived but had no room for gratitude past his raging anger towards Gabriel for daring to hurt Aziraphale and towards God for letting it happen. But yesterday, in the flat above the bookshop, he found himself thanking Her twice.  
He immediately tried to take it back, but it was too late. He hopes She still knows he hasn’t forgiven her._

He picks up the satchel where he’s packed his collection and knocks on the cottage door. No answer. He stands back and looks around the area – peaceful, some decent trees. Shouts of children from the backyard. Huh. He wouldn’t have guessed Anathema had children.

Finally someone answers, but it isn’t book girl – it’s someone else who looks vaguely familiar.

“Uh, hi, so you’re Crowley,” says the young man. He has wide eyes and untidy dark hair.

Crowley waits. The young man doesn’t move. “So, am I not allowed off the doorstep, orrrr…?” He drapes his long arm across the top of the doorframe and looms. He’s very good at looming.

“Oh! Sorry. Yeah, come in. Anathema’s just in the kitchen.” The young man moves away from the door and Crowley enters at last.

It’s quaint. Crowley can’t decide if that’s a good or a bad thing. He’s never thought of himself as a cottage person, and the décor is atrocious, but he imagines it with some upgrades, towering bookshelves, plant pots in strategic locations, and he doesn’t hate the idea. Maybe an angel standing at the sink in an apron…

The person actually standing at the sink, of course, is not Aziraphale. “You remember Newt,” Anathema says as Crowley approaches, not removing her hands from the bowl she’s attending.

Crowley glances around before realizing ‘newt’ is in fact a _person_. “Ah… yeah. Sure. Thanks for helping me* bugger up the Apocalypse.”

* _In Crowley’s mind, he is absolutely the hero of that day. Aziraphale can have some of the credit too. Everyone else was just set dressing._

“You’re… welcome.” Newt attempts a little laugh. It looks painful.

Crowley joins Anathema at the sink as Newt scurries out of the room.

“He’s still getting used to the whole _‘demon’_ thing,” she says quietly. “Give it time. I think he’d be just as freaked out by an angel.”

“You should see Aziraphale’s true form.” He smirks. “Enormous. Eyes everywhere. Could throw you halfway across the county. _He’s_ the one to be scared of.”

Anathema shrugs. “If I know anything about angels, I probably _shouldn’t_ see it. I like having my eyesight.”

That’s fair. He looks at the bowls on the counter – filled with different kinds of batter. Anathema is wielding a wooden spoon. Across the way there are pans covered in cooling biscuits. “Whipping up poisoned witch sweets for the trespassing children?”

“Adam and his friends are always welcome here.” She gives him an unamused glare, which actually turns out to be rather intimidating. “And we’re making Christmas cookies.”

“Biscuits,” he corrects automatically as he reaches out for one. She raps his knuckles with the spoon.

“They’re cooling.”

“I don’t burn,” he says, and takes one anyway, shoving it into his mouth whole. It’s not bad, but he’ll never admit that. “So,” he continues through a full mouth, “let’s talk about these blessed miracles.”

Another pointed stare. He swallows and smiles innocently. “Right,” she says after a pause. “Let’s see them.”

He lays them out on the table: the snowglobe, the wooden nativity, the glass heart, and the ruby-colored hairpin. She gathers some eccentric instruments from a corner cupboard.

“The heart’s new,” she says as she holds an amulet over the objects, watching it sway.

“Two days ago. That one’s London, 1858.” He’s proud to know the year, thanks to Aziraphale. She doesn’t look overly impressed, but then, she’s distracted. “Hairpin’s yesterday. There was a bell three days ago but Aziraphale’s got that one.”

“So what was the close call?”

The text he sent her last night went straight to the point: **need to talk to you, close call today. will be in tadfield tomorrow. bringing scotch for your trouble** “Reminds me,” he says, and draws the bottle of Scotch out of the satchel, setting it on the counter.

Anathema breaks away from her work long enough to examine it. “Mm. Nice. Okay. Close call?”

“Right. Turns out Aziraphale kept a cursed box around from years ago, and it attacked him. Thought it was one of mine at first. It wasn’t, but… something like that could happen. Any day. It’s all completely random, so’s I can tell, and I – it can’t happen, is all. So I need to stop it.”

“Is he okay?” Her brow furrows, genuine concern that shoots her way up in Crowley’s esteem.

“Oh, yeah, all fine now. Just tickety-boo,” he says with a smirk, then regrets it as he remembers she’s not in on that particular joke. She’s looking at him like she’s trying to decide if it’s a Brit thing or a part of his actual personality. He drops the smirk. “It was a cursed rope, so right up my alley, and I got the poison out of him easy. Got there in time.” _(Don’t think about if you hadn’t.)_ “But seeing him like that, it…” He breaks off, feeling his voice waver.

She looks studiously away from him until he collects himself – another immense point in her favor. “Look, these items – they don’t seem cursed or malevolent at all,” she says. “I think there’s some sort of enchantment on these two –” She indicates the snowglobe and the nativity. “But it doesn’t seem dangerous.”

“Ah, yeah, that’s us. Little miracle to keep them from disappearing, make sure they don’t break. Angel did the globe, ornament was me.”

“That’s very interesting. I didn’t sense any difference at all between the two.”

He shrugs. “Well, angels, demons, same stock. I used to do blessings for him all the time, he’d do temptations for me, minor curses. Nothing to it, really.”

Her eyebrows are climbing into her hair. He would bet she wore the same look during their phone conversation, when he said _stop time_. “This is all fascinating. You’re going to have to tell me more, you know.”

“Hey, we had an agreement, ’nd I keep my word.”

“Good. Lunch sometime, then. Secrets of Hell. But for now…” She sets down the instrument she’s using now (some kind of wand/divining rod? It has five metal-tipped prongs but the rest is wood and he’s _way_ out of his depth here). “Seriously, what does Aziraphale think about all this?”

His brain stutters around the thought. He’s been doing everything he can to distract himself from that very question, though it always returns with a vengeance at night. “I, ah… I don’t know. I’m sort of hoping he thinks it’s just, you know, _happening._ That it’s nothing to do with me, just one of those weird… universe things. Maybe he knows – sometimes I think he must – but he’s being polite. He does that, you know. He hasn’t shouted at me for it yet, and I’d like to keep it that way. Preferably by putting an end to it as soon as possible.”

“ _Could_ it be one of those weird universe things?”

This is all so hard to explain, especially to a human – the answers are all so _obvious_ but for some reason, when he puts it into words, it almost seems like there are gaps. “Nah. It’s all too… ’s only stuff I care about. Stuff _I_ remember. It wouldn’t be personal like that, except if I got cursed by a witch or something, and that I’d definitely know about.”

“No, I’m not feeling any curses on you. I mean, your _aura’s_ cursed, and big and weird and hard to look at… but that other demon was the same way, so it’s probably just a demon thing.”

He winces at the idea of his aura and Beelzebub’s having _anything_ in common.

She continues, “So these are things that only exist in your memories? Things Aziraphale doesn’t know about?”

“Well… no, not really. He was there for most of them.”

“Most of them?”

“All of them, okay?” Crowley’s shouting, because he _knows_ where she’s going with this, all right? He’s not an idiot*. “But this has nothing to do with him. If _his_ subconscious were manifesting things up, they’d be – I don’t know. Books he lost at the Library of Alexandria. Sushi he didn’t get to finish because Gabriel showed up and ruined it. Cufflinks he gave Oscar _bloody_ Wilde.” He forces himself to quiet down. “Look… some of these things… they’re nice memories for him, sure. But… they only _matter_ to me. It _has_ to be me.”

* _[citation needed]_

She’s watching him with maybe a little too much sympathy. “Okay, so your memories, your feelings” (his face does a visceral twist of disgust at the word _feelings_ ) “are important to whatever’s going on. But have you ever thought: what if it’s both of you?”

His head snaps up. They’re in new territory. “What?”

“I mean,” she says patiently, “what if these miracles are a sort of – of _emergent property_ of you both? Something that’s not just coming from one of you, but from the two of you? It seems like they’re all related to your past together. It could be something that’s happening from _both_ of your subconsciouses, _combined_.”

He doesn’t know how to tell her that _all_ his important memories involve Aziraphale, that there is no history of him that isn’t about the two of them. Instead he just stands there, letting the idea sink in.

It’s not… _impossible_.

Of course, Crowley is responsible for the sheer amount of pining represented, he has no illusions about that. But, here’s the thing: this has never happened before. Not in all the six-thousand-and-change winters he’s been on this Earth. And what’s changed this year? He’s no more in love with Aziraphale this year than before, because that’s _impossible_ – it’s a nice sentiment to say “I love you more every day,” but he’s an immortal being, and he maxed out his love long ago, reached infinity and never looked back.

So what _is_ different?

They’re together. Well, not _together_ together, but… they’ve spent nearly every day together since the summer. They’ve been closer, physically and emotionally, than they’ve ever allowed themselves to be before. They’re on _their_ side now, their own side, and without work to get in the way, they’ve been glutting themselves on each other’s company.

If anything mystical were to _emerge_ , why wouldn’t it emerge from that?

It’s a novel idea, and though he’s loath to admit she’s right, he ends up saying slowly, “You’re not… wrong. ’S a possibility.”

She looks pleased. “I think it’s the most likely explanation.”

“…I still need to be sure nothing’s going to hurt him. Even if you’re right… this is something I can’t control. And I need to be certain.”

“Crowley… look, how long have you known Aziraphale?”

“Six thousand years,” he answers.

Her eyebrow raises at that and she’s momentarily pulled off track. She hesitates, picks up a pencil from the counter, and scribbles something on a small notepad. “Okay, we’ll come back to that later. So you care about him, obviously. You want him to be safe?”

“Obviously.” He’s bared his teeth and it comes out in almost a hiss.

“You want to protect him.”

He rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “Do you have a point here or not?”

“No, it’s just funny,” she muses in a tone that suggests _funny_ is not the right word. “Because you’re telling me that you _would_ let him come to harm. You would put him in danger. You would _hurt_ him.”

“ _Never,_ ” he says, drawing himself up, fury and terror and the deepest offense. “I would _never_ hurt him, I would discorporate – I would _die_ before – I have kept him safe for six thousand years and if anyone wants to harm him they are going to have to go through me first, how _dare_ you –”

She gives him a pointed look.

He thinks about it.

Her smile turns smug.

He closes his eyes and unclenches his fists*. “All right,” he says through gritted teeth. “ _Maybe_ you have a point.”

* _Behind him, dozens of objects stop levitating. A red glow goes out of the room as quickly as it came. His eyes, which had been beaming one hundred percent yellow malevolence_ through _his sunglasses, go back to normal. Anathema makes several mental notes._

“Maybe your subconscious is doing all these things,” Anathema says. “But if it _is_ your subconscious, if it’s really _you_ , I would bet the last thing it’s going to do is hurt him. I don’t think it’s capable of that.”

He opens his eyes and levels an unamused look at her. Of course, given the glasses, he has to do most of the work with his eyebrows and his mouth (plus a little help from his cheekbones), but he’s had a lot of practice and he knows it comes across.

“If you still want to get it to stop –”

“I do,” he says, because this phenomenon is still laying all his emotions bare at Aziraphale’s feet, still a betrayal of his desperate yearning. It’s only a matter of time before Aziraphale finds something worse than a heart, like a certain clay tablet engraved with his future desires by a woman who’d seen straight through him. Or a journal he pilfered and filled with the thoughts he couldn’t wish away, with the devotion that overflowed him, and with soppy poetry he considered publishing anonymously but then only buried in the woods when he couldn’t bring himself to burn it.

Yesterday, that was a third source of panic (after Aziraphale almost dying and Crowley believing the attack was his fault – it was one Hell of a day). Maybe his mind had been thrown back to that era by the cursed rope, but there were words from Aziraphale that sounded much like the poetry Crowley had written for him, and for a moment Crowley was convinced the journal had been that day’s miracle and Aziraphale had read it already. And then he _swore_ he saw the corner of the journal in that trunk next to the bed, but Aziraphale closed it and moved on before he could take a closer look. So he must have been imagining it. When the hairpin arrived, he held it with an immense relief that the day’s miracle had shown itself and proved to be relatively innocuous.

Sure, it gave away how much Crowley had dwelled on that memory of Aziraphale’s hands in his hair, but Crowley’s learning there are worse things.

“Try something for me,” Anathema says. “Pick one of these and try to – how did you say it? Miracle it away. Make it disappear. I’ll take measurements while you do it and maybe we can see what’s going wrong.”

“Yeah, all right,” he says, and moves the glass heart to the center of the table. It’s incriminating and it appeared without his permission. He wants it gone.

Anathema sets up some gizmo that looks like an overgrown microscope, then gives him a thumbs-up.

He glares at the heart and snaps his fingers.

The heart vanishes.

“Huh,” he says.

She looks up from the eyepiece. “Is that what’s supposed to happen?”

“Yeah,” he says with surprise. He reaches out his extra senses and feels the air where the heart used to be. Nothing’s amiss. “That’s _exactly_ what’s supposed to happen.”

“When have you actually tried to get rid of these things? When did it fail?”

“Well, the lake, obviously,” he replies. “That thing wasn’t going anywhere. And then, I _think_ I did the bowl, I was a bit distracted –” _(Aziraphale’s hands in his hair)_ “- but yeah, I got to it eventually. Those _blasted_ candy canes, definitely tried those a few times. And…” He stops. Embarrassingly, it occurs to him he hasn’t tried since then. After that came the snowglobe, and the ornaments, and he was in no hurry to get rid of them. Then the bell, which – he couldn’t imagine wanted to vanish that off Aziraphale’s wrist, especially when it was meant to keep him safe, and it turned out that was for the best. By the time of the Christmas crackers, he’d quite forgotten it was an option to try. “I guess I just figured it was pointless, after that.”

“Maybe there’s a time limit. A certain amount of time after it’s created. _Or,_ there was some reason you couldn’t affect those first few, but as time’s gone on they’ve gotten weaker or you’ve gotten stronger, and now you can get rid of them whenever you want. Or there was some change in your subconscious makeup, the way you’re relating to the situation, that made it a possibility.”

He’s almost giddy with his newfound power. He can get _rid_ of them. Maybe the whole thing is evolving, the rules are changing – maybe his subconscious is settling down and agreeing to a few of his demands. Even if he does make something that could hurt Aziraphale (and he thinks she’s probably right, that that’s impossible, excepting Aziraphale’s preternatural ability to get into trouble from the most unassuming of sources), he just has to make sure he’s there to take it away. This could be okay. They could be okay. “Do you think it will stop on its own, then, sometime?”

“I think,” Anathema says slowly, “it will stop whenever it’s accomplished whatever it’s here to do.”

“C’mon, don’t talk like it’s alive, that’s weird.”

“Well, then, whenever things feel settled. Like there’s a resolution. These are all holiday objects, right? Maybe it’s just trying to make sure you have a certain kind of holiday experience.”

He thinks of the market, and pulling open the Christmas crackers, and skating close by Aziraphale’s side. It hasn’t been bad, this December. If he hadn’t spent it worrying over his rebellious subconscious, he would almost call it enjoyable. “Maybe you’re right.”

“My advice?” Anathema looks at him straight on, serious, and Crowley surprises himself by wanting to listen to what she has to say. “Go with it. Enchantments like this happen for a reason, and whether it’s trying to achieve a particular effect or cause a certain event to happen, if it’s not dangerous, the easiest way out is usually through. It’ll run its course, and at the end of it you might find out why. Or it could go away on its own. Either way, I don’t think there’s any reason to fight it. You might just make it worse. I say, embrace it.”

It sounds tempting. To just relax – to just let it happen. To just _savor_ these experiences, the times they get close, the memories, to lean into it and let it fill him up. As if he’s doing it on purpose. As if –

And there’s a thought. What if he _does_ do it on purpose? If he makes a miracle for the day before his subconscious chooses one on accident? Will they end up with two, or will his subconscious throw up its metaphorical hands and say _I guess that’s taken care of?_

Well. There’s really only one way to find out.

He gathers his things back into his satchel. “Thank you,” he tells Anathema, and it’s alarmingly sincere. “You’ve helped. I’ll –”

Just then the back door flies open and four shapes run in. Children. Familiar – was all of Tadfield at the airbase that day? It’s like he recognizes everyone he comes across. Of course, there’s one in particular he would know anywhere.

“Can we eat them yet?” asks the Antichrist.

Anathema smiles fondly. “I think they’re just about cool. Let’s do two each, for now, yeah?”

The Antichrist shrugs. “We’ll see if we like them. Pepper?”

The girl child steps forward and selects a biscuit off a tray, taking a careful bite. She deliberates. “Not bad,” she says eventually. “Are you doing the cream cheese next?”

“I can,” says Anathema.

The Antichrist’s penetrating gaze falls on Crowley. “It’s you,” he says.

“It’s me,” Crowley answers, spreading his hands. There’s not much else to say. “Settling in okay to the world after the Apocalypse?”

He thinks a long moment before he nods. “Yeah. Think so. How’s the car?”

Crowley beams. He can’t help it. “Good as new. The bookshop too. Better than. Aziraphale says those books you added are very valuable.”

“Yeah, he told me,” the Antichrist says offhandedly.

Crowley briefly considers thumping his own head against the wall, just a few times. Just as punctuation. “Of course he did. Look, mind if I take some of those biscuits?”

The Antichrist moves aside so Crowley can fill the plastic container he’s miracled for the purpose. Next to him, the tallest boy is piling three into his mouth at once.

“Can we send some to our friend in London? He says his mum’s are terrible,” the boy with glasses asks.

“Yes, thank you for asking,” Anathema says with a pointed look at Crowley. He shrugs at her. As far as he’s concerned, he got permission from the highest authority in the room.

He’s settled in the driver’s seat of the Bentley when he realizes Anathema followed him out. He rolls down the window.

“Lunch, _soon_ ,” she says.

“Good as my word.” He grins at her, not unpleasantly. He’s feeling good. “Tell you loads of secrets. Might scare you off.”

“Not likely,” she says. “And text me if you have any more problems. Or updates. I want to know how this ends.”

That doesn’t sound ominous at all. “It might not ‘end,’” (he does ominous air quotes to match her ominous voice) “it might just… stop. But I’ll let you know either way. I… appreciate it. Everything. Really, I do.”

She smiles back, shakes her head, almost fondly. “Please, I get it. You were worried about your boyfriend. I wasn’t just going to ignore you.”

“Not my boyfriend,” he says. He’s made a bad habit over the years of letting people assume it, and Aziraphale’s seemed content with it too – oh, if a human suggested they were _friends_ , that they were _working together_ , he’d be quick to correct them, but if a waiter said _“and a menu for your wife?”_ Aziraphale’s been known to just… nod. Crowley, meanwhile, never corrects people, and if he’s been known to encourage it a time or two… who can blame him? But Anathema’s a part of both their lives now, and it would be wrong to give her a false impression.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Husband. I didn’t realize you were married.” Her smile hasn’t changed, her tone hasn’t gone joking at all, and his brain has trouble working through what just occurred. While he’s processing, she taps the top of the car (lightly, but it still brings a growl into his throat) and steps away. “Drive safe!” And she heads back into the cottage.

He just sits there. “I should fix that,” he says aloud to the empty vehicle. What, Anathema thinks they’re _married?_ This whole time, she thought they were _together?_ It’s not unprecedented, but still. She knows them both, better than most humans do. She’s seen more of them, and in some very stressful situations.

She talks to Aziraphale, every few weeks. What has Aziraphale said, to give her that impression? Does he _talk_ about Crowley? Like a boyfriend would? Like a husband would?

“I really should fix that,” he says again, and then he puts the car into gear and gets on the road. “Nah, c’n do it some other day. No rush.”

The car is empty, but he’s fooling no one, not even himself. As he drives, he calls the glass heart back into his palm. Now that he knows it’s under his control, it feels less like a millstone. It represents his love for Aziraphale, after all – the best part of him, hands down. And who is he to get rid of that?

He stashes it in the glovebox and swings by Waitrose on the way to the bookshop.

When he nudges open the bookshop door with his hip, hands full with four carrier bags of ingredients, Aziraphale rushes over to help him bring them in.

“Oh, hello! What have we – oh, Crowley, you didn’t have to leave it in,” says Aziraphale, looking him over with a smile.

It takes Crowley a moment to figure out what he’s talking about, and when he does, he blesses up a mental storm. Last night he couldn’t bring himself to take down his hair before he went to bed – the braids Aziraphale wove for him. In the morning he pulled out the ruby pin for Anathema but left the rest, figuring he could deal with it later once he’d woken up a bit. So now his hair is sleep-scruffy and lopsided, partly pulled down but mostly still up, and it’s looked like this the whole day, and he couldn’t care _less_ about the humans but the last thing he wanted is for _Aziraphale_ to catch him being sentimental. “Right, forgot,” he says, and hands now free, he pulls out the remaining pins and tries to detangle as best he can.

And then Aziraphale is there behind him, sliding fingers down the centers of the braids, smoothing them out. Crowley’s brain short-circuits. The release of taking his hair down is pleasant enough on a normal day without his angel _right there_ , pulling gently, brushing his scalp with every stroke.

“Now, what have you brought us?” Aziraphale asks, stepping back like nothing just happened, going over to examine the bags.

“Ah…” Crowley’s brain finally powers up enough to say, “Thought we could make biscuits. Got stuff for – shortbread, gingerbread, crinkle biscuits. Madeleines.” He says the last a little shyly, because that was always something Aziraphale did for Warlock at Christmastime, a special ritual in which Crowley felt lucky just to be included. “Figure we can make a batch now for practice and then maybe more before we see him so they’re fresh.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are so sparkly that Crowley ducks his head, embarrassed. “Well, that sounds _wonderful_. Although…” He pauses, a quick glance over his shoulder and then back. When he speaks again, it’s in that _tone_ , the one where he’s asking for something without asking, the one where Crowley gets to play the hero if he can read between the lines. “My kitchen is _very_ small. I suppose I could miracle an oven, but I’m not sure it’s quite up to the task…”

Crowley deliberates for about half a second; he knows he’s uncertain about this, but with Aziraphale giving him that pleading look, he can’t for the life of him remember why. He keeps his voice light as he says, “You could come to mine?”

Aziraphale beams. “Oh, _excellent._ Shall we, then?”

He’s scooped up the ingredients and he’s out the door before Crowley can reply.

The drive over is short, but gives Crowley just enough time to remember why he’s nervous. Aziraphale in his flat is _new_. He’s only ever spent the one night – not sleeping, merely saying _“Rest well, dear”_ as Crowley went to bed and barely didn’t answer _“Come with me”_ – and he’s stopped by occasionally since then, to pick things up or to look in on Crowley or to collect him for dinner. But Crowley has the car, and the bookshop is so central to them that there’s never been a need for Aziraphale to come over more than that.

Crowley knows his place is barren, by Aziraphale’s standards, and not particularly inviting. He starts queueing up in his mind the miracles he’ll want to rush in before they go inside. Change the linens, hide anything embarrassing (not that he owns much of anything at all), maybe add a sofa or a comfy chair. By the time he opens the Bentley door for Aziraphale he has them lined up, and by the time he unlocks the front door he’s made them real.

There’s nothing of judgment in Aziraphale’s face as he enters; he looks peaceful. Crowley can’t decide what’s stronger, his nerves or his excitement. He eventually settles for both and heads to the kitchen to start laying out the ingredients.

“I’d forgotten how big it was,” says Aziraphale from the doorway behind him.

Crowley could tease him about that. He does, sometimes, when Aziraphale says something with a double meaning – he counts it a victory when he can make Aziraphale blush. But he won’t. But he could – but he won’t. But – “Oh, the kitchen?” he says in high-pitched voice, clinking bowls onto the counter loudly to cover his internal struggle. “Yeah, came with the flat, never thought I’d use it. Good thing, though.”

“Yes. Good thing.” Aziraphale draws up beside and begins opening some of the food containers, diving straight into measuring out flour. Crowley hopes they remember how to do this right. It was easier, back then, to cheat a little, to miracle them perfect for Warlock’s sake. But this is for Aziraphale, who can taste the difference. Crowley wants them to be perfect on their own.

 _“Why are your cookies so good?”_ Warlock asked one year (well, every year, but this particular time he was seven years old).

 _“Biscuits, dear,”_ said Crowley as Nanny Ashtoreth.

 _“Because they’re made with love,”_ said Aziraphale as Brother Francis, and Crowley narrowed her eyes at him.

Warlock frowned.

 _“Because they’re made with the tears of the innocent,”_ Crowley corrected, earning Aziraphale’s glare in return.

Warlock smiled. _“Mum doesn’t use the tears of the innocent.”_

 _“Yes, that’s why her biscuits are subpar,”_ said Crowley. _“Now pass the sugar.”_

Now, they fall into a familiar rhythm as they mix the different batters. Aziraphale dollops them onto pans in vaguely-even portions. Crowley takes on the job of loading them into the oven ( _not_ because he wants Aziraphale nowhere near fire ever again, obviously, it must be for… a different reason). When they get to the madeleines, Aziraphale glances around, uncertain.

“Under the cooling rack,” Crowley murmurs, a quiet suggestion. When Aziraphale looks, he finds a madeleine pan, because of course Crowley bought* him a madeleine pan, what is he, an amateur?

* _Miracled. Ten seconds ago._

Aziraphale is brushing* butter onto the pan, filling in the small scalloped spaces, when Crowley reaches a decision on a certain dilemma.

* _And of course he miracled his own pastry brush, the fussy bastard, Crowley loves him for all of it._

If Aziraphale somehow _hasn’t_ figured out that the miracles are all (or partially) Crowley’s fault yet – he deserves to know. It’s not fair if Aziraphale wants them to stop but has no idea where to start, hasn’t come to any of the conclusions Crowley and Anathema came to today. It’s not fair if Crowley keeps inflicting this on him, saying nothing for the sake of protecting himself, not even offering to work together to solve it. That’s not who they are.

“Aziraphale,” he says, and something in his tone makes Aziraphale stop and look at him with concern before turning back to continue the brushing more slowly. “These – these _things_ that have been… a-appearing.” He can’t even speak properly. He hates himself for it.

Aziraphale has stopped moving entirely now, still staring at the pan. “Yes?” It’s a stressed sound.

“Are you – do you want them to stop?” His heart is pounding.

“Do _you_?” Aziraphale looks up at him then, pained earnestness in the hazel-blue of his eyes.

Crowley hesitates. He _did_ , this morning. Or he thought he did, a little. Or… at some point, he did, but along the way it’s been… nice. Maybe he’s been warming to it without even noticing. He shouldn’t like it, but he does. Getting to be close to Aziraphale, to share with him these memories, to see some hint of why other people are so fond of the season… “No,” he admits. One side of his mouth lifts without permission. “They’re not bad, I guess, the holidays. All warm and cheery, you fit right in.”

Aziraphale’s face breaks into a brilliant smile, stopping Crowley’s breath. He abandons the pastry brush. “Oh, good. I think they’re just wonderful. I almost wish they could go on all year. And it’s been _lovely_ to spend them with you, my dear.”

Crowley is sure he must be blushing from the tips of his ears all the way down his throat. He makes a vague noise full of consonants. Aziraphale pats his elbow, still smiling broadly, and turns back to the baking.

They get them in the oven and then stand there, leaning against the counter, surveying the dishes coated with remnants of batter.

“We really shouldn’t,” says Aziraphale.

“Why not?”

“Well, they say you’re not _supposed_ to!”

Crowley slouches toward him, letting his voice fall into a tempting. “You think a few raw eggs are going to hurt a celestial being like you? It’s just going to go to waste.” He feels his tongue flit out as he leans toward Aziraphale’s ear, reveling as always in how he can let out his inner demon a bit and Aziraphale will not shove him away in horror. All he does is shiver slightly as Crowley adds, “What’s the point of making it if you can’t have a _taste_?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale murmurs, and lets him spoon a mouthful of gingerbread dough past his lips.

In the end they eat all of it, and some even goes to Crowley, who has an evolutionary predilection for raw eggs.

When the biscuits are done cooling, Aziraphale begins bustling around for a place to put them. _Now or never,_ thinks Crowley with a brief concentration of intent, and produces something from behind his back. “How about this?” he asks quietly.

And Aziraphale looks… _overcome._

It’s not _that_ special, really, which Crowley almost says but manages not to. It’s the serving plate they’d use every Christmas back at the Dowlings’ estate. A winter scene, only unpacked for the holidays and placed back in storage year-round. The edge is patterned with snowflakes and houses, blue and white like china, and the middle is decorated with reindeer grazing peacefully in the starry night.

As miracles go, it’s not exactly a frozen lake, and Crowley doesn’t know why Aziraphale is reacting this way. They’ve been doing this all month. Aziraphale is used to Crowley’s miracles showing up unpredictably, and yet _this_ time Aziraphale is looking at him like he’s done something magical. Something in the back of his head starts the process of brainstorming ways to make Aziraphale look like that again, as many times as possible, forever.

“That will do nicely,” says Aziraphale breathlessly.

They take a plate of biscuits over to the table and eat them there. (Well, Aziraphale eats. Crowley takes a bite of each flavor and gifts the remainder to Aziraphale as if it’s _not_ just him being selfish, wanting to enjoy the show.) The shortbread is a little overbaked but the madeleines are just right. Aziraphale seems relaxed, joyful. Crowley is surprised to discover he feels the same.

He feels like laughing, just from sheer happiness, and then remembers he _can_ , and when Aziraphale questions he just says “You’re just right, ’s _lovely”_ in a voice that’s teasing but fond and makes Aziraphale blush again.

They can have this? They can _have_ this. Crowley can’t stop smiling all evening, knowing that Aziraphale wants this, knowing that he’s safe. Knowing there’s no pressure to scramble for a solution, to panic, to hide. And yes, maybe there’s the possibility Aziraphale will discover that Crowley is madly, desperately in love with him, but…

Crowley lets himself think that maybe, Aziraphale would understand?

He _has_ to know already (except he doesn’t), Crowley has always thought at times. Crowley hasn’t exactly been subtle. Maybe that damning evidence will appear and Aziraphale will _understand_ , will just nod and take it in stride, will not be cruel (of course he wouldn’t be), will not become distant or disappear. Maybe it won’t have to change anything between them.

Maybe he’ll even –

Well.

It’s a thought, isn’t it?

No other miracle appears that night – Crowley’s choice counted, it seems, and it cheers him, thinking maybe he’s getting the hang of this. He leans on his hand and watches Aziraphale eat and swaps stories and laughs in all the right places, lets himself fill up with warmth and joy and adoration. It’s okay now. He can do this, he can _have_ this. He can throw himself in and enjoy this, this…

This Goddamned, Godblessed miraculous December.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If enough people think they're married, they're married. I don't make the rules.
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘hannukah’: Aziraphale scares his snake by lighting fire in the bookshop, but that's okay, he fixes it. Crowley and Aziraphale are, unsurprisingly, at the center of one of the most famous miracles in history. Aziraphale thinks deep thoughts about the time paradox of his miracles and what the Ineffable Plan has in store for him and Crowley.


	10. Hannukah

The sun sets beautifully outside the bookshop window as Aziraphale sits beside it, waiting patiently. The hanukkiah rests on the sill beside him, nine votives filled with oil. Crowley will be here soon, he knows. For now he’s content to watch passersby and let his mind wander. (While grazing on yesterday’s gingerbread, because it _did_ turn out scrummily.)

He’s still glowing from the revelation that Crowley is _not_ going to call him on his plan, not going to ask him to stop – quite the opposite, in fact. There was a moment last night when Aziraphale felt _sure_ Crowley was about to say _Thanks but no thanks, I don’t like it, that’s us done now._ But instead…

Not only does Crowley _like_ the miracles* - he created one of his very own, just for the two of them. A serving plate they’d used at the Dowlings’ estate all those years (during which everyone apparently thought they were married, but he can cross** that bridge when he comes to it).

* _His exact words were “not bad,” which in Crowley-speak translates to effusive praise. He also said “warm and cheery,” and although he hadn’t exactly admitted those were_ good _things, Aziraphale knows. Warmth is never more important than to someone who has known the cold, and his cold-blooded serpent has been through far too many harsh winters. Aziraphale doesn’t plan to ever let him be cold again._

** _Crowley always says “burn that bridge when I come to it,” which Aziraphale privately likes better, but it seems a turn of phrase best left to the demons._

When Aziraphale saw that plate, it took everything in his body not to say _I love you_ then and there. Crowley is warming to intimacy; Aziraphale wants a more solid foundation before he risks it. But goodness knows his actions have been screaming it louder than ever before.

The bookshop door opens, letting in a rush of cold. Crowley enters and hurries to close it behind himself. Aziraphale is pleased to notice Crowley is wearing a certain scarf gifted to him years back – of course it’s partly concealed under one of those heinous high-fashion nightmares that couldn’t warm a flea, but part of it peeks out to the side, soft and thick. It was Aziraphale’s scarf first, but he didn’t hesitate a moment when he saw Crowley shivering on the sidewalk one winter’s day. To know Crowley has kept it does much to keep Aziraphale warm, too.

“There you are,” says Aziraphale. Crowley turns to him with the small quirk of a smile and _takes off his glasses_. Yellow eyes blink down at him, sweet and content. How comfortable he’s getting! Aziraphale fantasizes about placing a box beside the door, _Leave all sunglasses here upon entering,_ because every moment dark lenses cover those eyes is a tragedy. “Now, I thought we might –” he begins, and lights a match, touching it to the center wick.

Crowley _loses his mind._

“No no no, you can’t have fire here, put it out –” Crowley says, rushing forward. “You can’t, angel you –” He collapses in front of Aziraphale, grasping at his legs, eyes suddenly vast pools deepening with tears.

Aziraphale, startled, snaps; the entire hanukkiah vanishes, match, flame, and all. He slides to the floor to kneel before Crowley, whose mouth is wide, jaw working with some difficulty forming syllables.

Aziraphale takes him into his arms. Crowley buries his face in Aziraphale’s neck and says in the smallest voice, “You can get rid of them if you want to?” And then he’s sobbing. “You can – you –”

“Shh, it’s all right, my darling,” Aziraphale whispers, hands on Crowley’s back, on his neck, in his hair, rubbing soothingly. “It’s okay, it’s gone, it’s all right…” Crowley is insensate, probably hearing very little of this, but Aziraphale hopes the tone carries through.

Eventually Crowley stills. His head remains pressed into Aziraphale’s shoulder, but likely it’s now because he’s awkward about the tears and doesn’t know how to look Aziraphale in the eye. What a silly, precious thing he is. Aziraphale lets him hide.

“Do you think it’s going to burn down again?” Aziraphale asks. “I wouldn’t let it, you know. I wouldn’t have the first time, except I was rather preoccupied on a different plane.”

Crowley makes a noise at this. Aziraphale just keeps rubbing until finally Crowley sits back, staring at him through red-rimmed eyes. “You were gone,” he croaks. “I thought you were – there was fire _everywhere,_ and I couldn’t find you, couldn’t _feel_ you, it was like a hole in the _world_. Do you know how _loud_ fire is? A proper one? Flames all over the place, rising in these great bloody columns, couldn’t make it to anywhere. Thought I knew fire before, but it was nothing – nothing like…”

Aziraphale’s entire world shifts, just a little bit, on its axis. This is something he hadn’t known. He feels his own eyes filling up. “Oh, my _dear_. You were here? During the fire?”

“’Course I was.” Crowley gives him a look like it’s simple, obvious. “Looking for you, wasn’t I? And then – well. Who’s going to attack an angel’s shop with ordinary fire? Weird bloody coincidence. So…”

“You thought it was Hellfire.” Aziraphale blinks harshly. Crowley doesn’t need his tears right now, though they may be unavoidable by this point.

“I mean, you told me about the Metatron thing later, and it makes sense. ’Course you were lighting _bloody_ candles in a bookshop. This sort of behavior is why no one will insure you, you know.” He laughs sharply; it’s unconvincing. Aziraphale smiles anyway.

“Couldn’t you _feel_ it wasn’t Hellfire?” he asks.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Bit much on my mind at the time.”

“Yes, of course. You’re right.” They sit there for a long moment. Aziraphale’s arms are still around Crowley’s back, and he’s not going to be the first to let go. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. I wish I could have been there.”

Crowley sniffs, tossing his head like he’s trying to get himself back together. “Glad you weren’t. Regular fire or not, I don’t think burning to a crisp makes for a pleasant discorporation experience.”

Aziraphale laughs. Crowley brushes himself off (there’s nothing _to_ brush off, but it’s an understandable motion) and rises to his feet. Aziraphale follows. “You could have told me,” he says as kindly as possible.

“Why?” Crowley asks.

At first Aziraphale thinks he’s being difficult, but he’s actually furrowed his brow in confusion, like the idea is alien. “Because I want to know about things that hurt you,” Aziraphale explains, feeling another squeeze in his heart. “I can’t be there if I don’t know. I want you to tell me from now on.”

Crowley shrugs. “Didn’t hurt me. I don’t burn.”

There’s no point in arguing it; Aziraphale levels a look at him, because he knows Crowley knows what he meant, and he knows Crowley knows he knows. They’ve always been very good at knowing. For all the words they’ve not spoken, the truth has always been apparent between them; the _I’ll protest the Arrangement but you’ll persist until I give in_ , the _I’ll claim I don’t like you but you’ll just point out that I do,_ the _I’ll call you a foul fiend but we both know you’re kind when it’s important_ , the _we can’t say we love each other but we can show it with every passing day until the time comes for us to be free_. These are all things Crowley knows, things he has always known. It’s the way they are, and although Aziraphale wants to change that, he empathizes with Crowley for needing to go slowly. “All the same,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley nods, because the meaning gets through.

Crowley clears his throat. “So,” he says. “Lighting the menorah?”

“Hanukkiah,” Aziraphale specifies. “Nine spaces on it. You remember _ours_ only had the seven.”

It’s a bit much, probably, to call it _theirs_ , but that’s how it feels. Maybe the very first work that was _theirs_ together. And this despite Aziraphale’s best efforts to resist. He thinks, not for the first time, how lucky he is that Crowley didn’t give up on him, kept finding him and tempting him and trusting him against all odds.

When Crowley first appeared at the Temple, it had been a very long time since Aziraphale had seen him. That was common, in those early days. Still, when Aziraphale heard Crowley’s voice, he couldn’t help the lightness in his chest, the feeling he couldn’t (or wouldn’t) yet identify as joy.

 _“How long have you been at this?”_ the voice asked from behind him.

Aziraphale removed his gaze from the tiny flame before him. _“Crawly. What are you doing here?”_

Crowley (at the time still going by his original, squirmier name) came closer and examined him. _“You look dead on your feet. How long?”_

Aziraphale had a minor struggle over how much information to reveal to the enemy before deciding it couldn’t hurt. _“Four days.”_

 _“Four days – angel.”_ (There was that word again, that word that stated a fact but made Aziraphale feel strangely warm to hear, despite that no one else used it. Perhaps _because_ no one else used it.)

 _“It’s very important it doesn’t go out,”_ Aziraphale explained worriedly. _“There are those who would attempt to sabotage…”_ And it dawned on him with dreadful clarity. _“_ That’s _why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re meant to – you have orders to –”_

_“No, I don’t –”_

_“You’re here to_ thwart _me!”_

_“I’m not here to –”_

_“You are. Well, I’m_ not _going to let you. Go do your foul work elsewhere, fiend!”_

Crowley exhaled, sharp and exasperated. _“That’s not what I’m here for, Aziraphale. I was just… in the area. You know. Fomenting.”_

_“What?”_

_“Nothing. Look, I happened to be around*, saw a light, figured I’d stop in. That’s all.”_

* _Aziraphale can say with some certainty, now, that this is_ not _what occurred. Crowley has come across him and played it off with manufactured nonchalance too often for it to be a coincidence. It seems a stretch to assume he laboriously followed behind Aziraphale like a stalking human; Aziraphale has often wondered if he can_ sense _him, somehow. There have been times Aziraphale was almost sure he could sense Crowley, too._

 _“Well,”_ said Aziraphale with an imperious sniff. He wouldn’t feel bad for making the accusation. He refused. These strange feelings of guilt and sympathy for the demon were confusing, but he was sure if he just pushed them down and ignored them, they would go away. (Of course he was wrong, and of course part of him knew that already, but he’d become by then a master of denial.)

Crowley was still looking at him closely in that way that made Aziraphale blush, made him feel strange but not unpleasantly so. _“You look like you need sleep,”_ Crowley said.

_“Sleep? Like a human?”_

_“What, you’ve never tried it?”_

What a strange idea. _“I haven’t had reason to! Angels don’t need sleep. And neither,”_ he said pointedly, _“do demons.”_

_“Nah, but ’s good. Enjoyable. You should try it.”_

_“It sounds like sloth to me.”_

_“I suppose. I’m meant to be good at that, aren’t I?”_ Crowley hesitated, almost looking nervous, if demons could be said to look nervous. (Aziraphale knew they could. He knew they could look pained, and exuberant, and heartbroken, and empathetic, and worshipful, and so on and on. At least _this_ one could. But if he thought of that his heart did this painful twist in his chest, so he didn’t.) _“Look, I could… you know…”_

_“Could what?”_

_“Could –”_ Crowley broke off and did some sort of finger wiggle. _“You know. Just for a bit.”_

Aziraphale was still innocent in the ways of Crowley, back then. _“What are you talking about?”_

Crowley scoffed with impatience. _“I could take over. You know, let you… get some rest. I don’t know. Sit down. Breathe some fresh air. Whatever it is you do to relax. Take a load off.”_

_“Out of the question!”_

_“C’mon, just for a bit. You can’t do this for… how long are you meant to do this?”_

_“Eight nights,”_ Aziraphale said pitifully. Eight nights of a constant expenditure of low-level miracle. He could have just waved the oil into burning eternally and been done with it, but Gabriel had wanted it done in a very specific way.

_“Eight – you can’t do this for eight nights straight, angel. You’ll keel over and, I don’t know, discorporate.”_

_“That’s impossible.”_

_“Well, still, just let me – you know. We can switch off,”_ Crowley said, brightly and kindly and, honestly, nothing at all like he sounded when he was doing a nefarious temptation. But Aziraphale still knew it was a nefarious temptation. It had to be. And to share maintenance of a blessing miracle?

_“But you’re a demon!”_

_“So?”_ Crowley’s expression was unimpressed, as if Aziraphale should have known better. _“Look, you can’t tell me you’ve never tried to do a curse…”_ He stared at Aziraphale for a moment, then sighed. _“All right, maybe you_ haven’t _. … Not even a little one?”_

 _“I’m an angel. We can’t,”_ he said. What was Crowley playing at? He knew how this worked. Angels on the good side, demons on the bad. It wasn’t just that they shouldn’t cross the line – it was that there wasn’t a line at all, but rather two sides on different playing fields at different heights with no edge in common to line off in the first place.

 _“You_ can _. C’mon, same stock. We can do_ all _the same things.”_

 _“I can’t turn into a_ snake _,”_ said Aziraphale a touch petulantly, pushing down a thrill of fear at the possibility that Crowley was right.

 _“All right,_ almost _all the same things. Look, I’m in town anyway. You look… I don’t know. Whatever it is angels get instead of tired. Let me help. See, you’re getting a demon to_ help _you, helping is probably a virtue or something, it’s a win for you. Might get me in trouble,”_ he said, which was clearly supposed to be an attractive prospect, but for some reason (Aziraphale pictured Crowley amid the flames, the burning, the sulphurous lake, whatever else demons did as punishment that he couldn’t imagine –) it was not.

 _“I said no, and that’s final,”_ Aziraphale said. And Crowley, eventually, left.

He came back the next night to find Aziraphale seated, leaning back against the wall. The moment he stepped in he was speaking rapidly:

_“Hungry! You’re hungry.”_

Aziraphale raised his head as far as he could go without feeling faint. A whisp of energy, only visible on another plane, flowed continuously from his fingers to the burning oil. His vision danced with afterimages of the flames. _“What?”_

 _“Right? That’s what you do instead of sleep. You eat. That’s how you, wotsitcalled, recuperate!”_ Crowley seemed proud of himself for the deduction, and Aziraphale started to smile weakly before he remembered himself.

 _“You’re_ not _going to talk me into leaving my position,”_ he said in the severest tone he could manage. _“Tempt me to go get something to eat so while I’m gone you can… tamper. Make it go out.”_

 _“What?”_ Crowley bore a look of genuine confusion. _“No. Here. Brought you something.”_

He produced a bundle from behind his back, and when Aziraphale opened it, there was a trove of food inside. Breads and fruits. Simple things, but enough to make his mouth water after so many nights at his vigil. _“Oh… oh. Thank you,”_ he said; he couldn’t stop himself. Maybe Crowley was playing some game, but in every way he _seemed_ like a dear creature with good intentions, and Aziraphale’s heart melted just that much.

Crowley wrinkled his nose. _“Don’t say that. ’S just inconvenient for me, is what it is, if you go fainting in the middle of the Temple. Bit much to explain to the humans.”_

 _You could just leave, far away, and not bother to look back_ , Aziraphale thought but did not say – didn’t want to give him the idea, even if that was what Aziraphale wanted. Wanted to want. He took a bite of his gift.

It was another night before Aziraphale, weary to the point of swaying, looked at Crowley (at his earnest eyes and ready hands and caring words) and said, _“All right. Show me.”_

The blessing was beautiful.

Aziraphale didn’t know what he’d been expecting – something demonic, he supposed. Something dark and twisting, something that clearly shared its lineage with a curse. But it was absolutely lovely. Silver and gold twined together, fine threads that strengthened the oil, gave it what it needed to fulfill its duty. Crowley went calm as he held it there, tension falling from his face like he was in a trance, carried to some place of peace. Aziraphale watched and couldn’t help but be in awe.

Eventually Crowley pulled back, opening the channel for Aziraphale, letting him pour himself back in until Crowley was out entirely. Crowley cleared his throat. _“So?”_ he asked without making eye contact. _“What do you think?”_

 _Oh,_ Aziraphale thought and couldn’t unthink, _the dear thing is self-conscious._ _“You did it,”_ he said, because apparently he was just stating the obvious now.

Crowley looked pleased. _“I did.”_

Aziraphale just managed not to beg, his lips closing on a _Do it again,_ wanting to see him in that place of peace. He tilted his head as if he were considering. _“I suppose a bit might not hurt. I may not be doing as good a job anymore, now that I’m not fresh. And I’m sure Heaven wants me at my best.”_

Crowley grinned.

They switched off until sunrise, and the night after that, until it was over, until the Temple was saved and the people were joyous and they could finally, finally step back and just watch.

 _“How miraculous,”_ Crowley said, a mischievous twist in his expression.

 _“Indeed,”_ said Aziraphale, and wondered how long it was acceptable to stay in the company of a demon, now that the work was done, before it became unseemly.

There were other menorot over the years, but none stuck more in the memory – and the humans seemed to feel that way too. Aziraphale’s startled to realize he doesn’t remember exactly from where he pulled this hanukkiah in particular – he just reached for something in the past and it came to him, a vague and distant memory.

He would have reached for that first menorah, except that he has been steadily growing a suspicion. It started with the bell, which had proved very mysteriously missing all those years ago, when he had returned to the forest where he’d lost it and searched. He had even, very strongly and stubbornly, _expected_ to find it at the base of the next tree, but when he got there it was still nowhere in sight.

And then he began to put together other pieces of memory. The snowglobe, which he had gone back to the maker to ask about a year later, only to be told it had been lost from the inventory; the man had just shrugged and said _these things happen_ , but it was a very expensive and elaborate item, and Aziraphale had always found that strange. When he thought about it, he liked to imagine Crowley had somehow found it and taken it, had known what it meant and who it was for and had wanted it enough to keep it.

The wassail bowl which, after being left briefly unattended, had caused the humans to complain and bicker because the level of cider seemed drastically lower than it was just a few minutes before.

The candy canes which, when Crowley and Aziraphale went to pass them out to the children walking up the path to church, had seemed just a few short.

And even the wooden nativity at the Christmas market – after Aziraphale was done with the interrupting human, he found himself back at that stall, looking for it on the ground. He tried not to feel _bad_ for distancing himself from Crowley, but he couldn’t stop picturing the hurt look on his face, couldn’t stop wondering how it would have shown in his lens-hidden eyes. But there was no ornament on the ground, even though the stall owner had seen no one take it. Even though Aziraphale was sure Crowley would not have come back for that sad and broken thing.

It all adds up to one big question in his head: What if Aziraphale has been pulling these objects _through time?_

The evidence is mounting. If he’s right – and it’s dizzying and astounding to think – what does that signify? If at the very moment he was looking for that ornament on the ground, aching for Crowley and not quite knowing why, it had already been pulled away to the future, where he’d summoned it for the sole sake of making Crowley smile?

There is precedent: the prophecies of Agnes Nutter. He has studied prophecy since prophecy was born, has always been interested in the loops of time, in the way the universe followed (or did not follow) some grand design. If Agnes Nutter knew that they would wear each other’s faces to save each other from annihilation, why shouldn’t the snowglobe have known it belonged in a time where Crowley would be able to hold it with all Aziraphale’s love? Why shouldn’t these things have been destined from the beginning?

He talks a great game about the Ineffable Plan, but it’s still fascinating and pleasing (in a surprising way) to have evidence that his wooing of Crowley was always the _plan_ , that this is what he’s been meant to do from the beginning.

(And again, not for the first time, he thinks about all the pain they’ve lived through with each other along the way, and wishes God would have shown Herself back on Eden’s wall to say _This is the being I have made for you, and you are allowed to love him, you are supposed to love him from now through every day and hour until the end of things and beyond._ Could have saved them a lot of trouble, that, and although they have an immense wealth of time stretching out before them now, he’s still sad to think of the time they’ve wasted already.)

He wonders if somewhen, on a cold day in St. James’s Park, humans are wondering whether they saw a section of the lake blip away for a fraction of a second or if it was just their imagination.

So he didn’t pull that first menorah, because wouldn’t _that_ be quite the thing to go missing on the poor humans, instead drawing on other memories for something to serve the purpose. (It felt right to do it the way humans did, anyway, with the correct number of wicks to light, nice and proper.) He just has no idea _when_ it came from.

He admits as much to Crowley, embarrassed: “Do you know, I’m not actually sure where this one’s from.”

“Poland,” Crowley said. “1943. You remember that family we stayed with? One of the ones you saved.”

“One of the few I _managed_ to save,” he says under his breath, because he will never forget the rules set forth by the archangels on that one, the limitations he had been forced to obey when the very core of him was cracked and bleeding, when all he could do was scramble to do what he could in ordinary human ways. “I do hope we didn’t steal it from them.”

Crowley gives him an odd look and opens his mouth like he’s deciding what to say, then shakes his head and seems to think better of it, saying instead: “They got out that same year, remember? Would’ve been left behind anyway by the next one.”

Aziraphale is sure Crowley will have a positively _delightful_ reaction to his time questions, will bounce up and down and speculate wildly and use long words Aziraphale doesn’t understand, but he wants to be a bit more certain before he shoves his infant theory out into the unknown. “So, do you think we should light it?” he asks instead. Crowley looks pained, torn – maybe between his own discomfort and his desire to please Aziraphale, which is exactly the thing Aziraphale has been going so slowly to avoid. “Or not,” he adds quickly. “I don’t see any reason we have to.”

Crowley hesitates, then lights with that spark he gets when he has an idea. “My place,” he says, grinning.

“Is that all right?” Aziraphale asks slowly, not knowing how else to phrase _Would that make you more comfortable? Would it not send you back to that terrible ordeal? Would you feel safe?_

“Yeah, think so,” Crowley says. He’s cheerful about it, scooping the hanukkiah up and tucking it under an elbow. The oil knows better than to spill. “Different place completely. And not stuffed up to the brim with books. It’s not like we’re lighting a fire in someplace _terribly flammable_.”

The look Aziraphale is being given is venomous. He sighs. “All right, I suppose I deserve that. Shall we head on then?”

They do.

Aziraphale is thrown by this discovery of a secret pain within Crowley, something he hadn’t even known to apologize for or to help heal. He thought he’d worked out a comprehensive list of things to discuss, moments from their past that linger as clouds of tension to this day – he thought he’d cover all of them, with his grand plan, and then they’d be free of it.

It occurs to him now that it may be more complicated – but also that, in taking longer, in maybe _never_ having an end, it could free them to make some of their own choices in the middle.

Crowley is going to need to be a part of this. There will be more conversations like this, not every day but any random day, and Aziraphale can’t plan for all of them. It might be more a process than a plan, more a journey than a destination. He has helped enough humans over the years to know healing is not linear, but he’s surprised to realize that might apply to them, too.

Maybe he can let Crowley help him figure it out. Step, not back, but a little aside, just enough so there’s room for the two of them. Work together, because at the heart of it they’ve always been working together, and is there anything more worthy of being together for than this?

He puts his hand over Crowley’s as they settle into the Bentley – just for a moment, just long enough to brush his fingers over the knuckles and squeeze. Crowley looks startled but not unhappy, and when Aziraphale smiles at him, Crowley’s smile back is tentative but almost pleased. He starts the car and Aziraphale gazes out the window at the slushy rain that is considering becoming snow.

He’s still going to spoil Crowley wildly, especially this holiday season. But he’s going to listen, too. He supposes that’s another sort of gift to give him, and just as valuable, in its own way. It will match nicely with the others, another item under their tree.

 _What else aren’t you telling me?_ he thinks as he watches Crowley drive in the dark, and decides it’s his job to find out, and to make it better. Now he just has to figure out where to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personal growth! *throws confetti* So proud of our angel today.
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘candles’: We travel back to ancient Egypt, where an angel and a demon witness the beginnings of pyramids and consider the rules of engagement for their ~~friendship~~ ~~enemyship~~ ~~love affair~~ acquaintanceship, all while being very distracted by each other’s wings. Meanwhile, in the present day, Aziraphale prepares a surprise on a rooftop. Crowley has opinions about quantum physics. They’re still distracted by each other’s wings… but this time they’re allowed to touch.


	11. Candles

When Crowley enters the bookshop just after nightfall, Aziraphale is nowhere to be found. This is not as concerning as it sounds, because Crowley can still feel his _presence_ , safe and calming, pulsing from somewhere nearby. So long as Aziraphale is in the world, Crowley will know it.

“Up here!” comes a voice from up the stairs, ringing with the telltale echo of magic amplification.

Crowley ascends – and what a privilege that is, to be here in Aziraphale’s private rooms, which he previously knew only as a sort of mythological creature in his life. Oh, he speculated, gathering bits of evidence* over the years, and he imagined ( _Does Aziraphale have a bed?_ was a prominent question, and he’s satisfied to know the answer is _yes_ , although less satisfied to know of its tartan duvet), but he wasn’t sure he’d _ever_ be allowed up. Now, a mere three days after the first time, Aziraphale is calling him up like he belongs there.

* _Sometimes Aziraphale would go up with an object and come down without it, or go up with nothing and come down with something else, usually a book, which Crowley slotted into his mental inventory. Sometimes Aziraphale would let slip something small in conversation, a mere “the bath upstairs” or “I was up there all night,” which Crowley analyzed as needed. Just a bit of a diversion, really – he was more curious than on tenterhooks. Everyone needs a hobby._

It’s an immense relief to know Aziraphale can vanish the miracles of his own accord. By default, if one of them creates something, the other can’t tamper with it so long as the creator is still concentrating on maintaining it. Some inherent ethereal/occult property of miracles. Over the years, Crowley and Aziraphale have developed the habit of ‘unproofing’ their designs for each other – just as their wards let each other pass, their miracles let both parties change and destroy them as desired. It is an intimate privilege, to be allowed control of Aziraphale’s creations, and Crowley has always been eager to return the favor. He just wasn’t sure how it would work with his subconscious in charge. But if Aziraphale can vanish the miracles, does that mean the two of them _are_ creating something _together_ , something new and emergent? Greater than the two of them apart? Answers will come; for now, it’s enough to know Aziraphale can snap the objects away as he likes, whether from dislike or from danger –

From fire. Aziraphale didn’t know Crowley’s experience in the fire, which seems impossible, because that memory is so indelibly carved into his soul. But it felt cathartic to discuss it (loath as he is to admit to catharsis), with the extra bonus of Aziraphale holding him – he doesn’t remember much of his breakdown, but he remembers the feeling of Aziraphale’s arms around him. Safe and warm. He hopes it won’t take another breakdown to get him to do it again.

At the end of the hall there is a ladder. Crowley doesn’t think it was there last time, but then he _was_ in a compromised state, what with Aziraphale nearly getting himself killed for good. He climbs.

It empties out onto a rooftop.

The vast expanse of sky serves as a fantastic staging area for the multitude of stars. Of course visibility isn’t the best here in London, but for reasons even he doesn’t understand, Crowley has always been able to see the stars clearly from anywhere. He can even see them in the daytime, if he concentrates hard enough. This is not an ability that extends to Aziraphale, and since it doesn’t _sound_ very demonic, Crowley likes to think of it as a personal talent. Recompense for those stars he made.

Distracted thus, it takes him a moment to realize Aziraphale is standing there in the darkness. “This always here?” Crowley asks, knowing the answer.

It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Aziraphale seems to blush. “Recent addition.”

“How recent?” Crowley teases.

“…An hour or so. But isn’t it lovely? And it will be nice in the summer, too, to get out into the cool air.”

It occurs to Crowley that he is not cold at all, which is saying something, for him. If anything he might be… overheating? He snaps away his scarf (scarves) and cracks his neck (this mainly to see Aziraphale wince). “Is it warm up here to you?”

“Ah, yes, well. I thought it might be more comfortable this way.”

Now that Crowley’s paying attention, he can feel the custom glow of Aziraphale’s power in the air, a long-lasting temperature miracle. His heart goes unforgivably gooey. Aziraphale has done this for him, they both know it – Crowley’s the only one of them to mind the cold.

Aziraphale nods toward the ground*. “Is this all right?”

* _Rooftop-ground. Floor? Crowley resolves to raise this important question the next time he needs a winding, unnecessary topic of conversation. Knowing them, there will probably be at least ten of those this evening._

There are bumps on the ground, all over, and upon closer examination they resolve into objects: ancient ceramic lamps and ancient candles, the kind used back when candles were a novel invention. Crowley looks back up at Aziraphale, who is holding up one hand like he’s offering up a miracle, and understands.

“I just thought…” Aziraphale says. “Well, out of doors, you know, it doesn’t seem as much of a risk, and I know it’s the same building, technically, but as these things go I think it does _count_ as a different location –”

Fire. He’s talking about fire. And he’s trying to make sure Crowley is okay. Crowley has the reaction he’s supposed to: embarrassment at his vulnerable emotions being acknowledged; incredulity at the suggestion that a demon might need to be coddled; annoyance at Aziraphale for making this a thing. But it’s a mild reaction, and behind it is appreciation and love, knowing Aziraphale is taking care of him. It all cancels out and he can’t bring himself to complain, although he certainly doesn’t say _thank you_. “’S good, angel,” he says, a bit too warmly to be neutral, but he’ll allow it. “You can. Go for it.”

Stars burn, after all. Crowley’s true form burns, somewhere on another plane. He may fear a repeat of previous events, but he was not made to be a thing that can ever grow a total distaste for the burning.

This distinction is not something he could easily explain to Aziraphale, but he thinks maybe he doesn’t have to for Aziraphale to understand. He wonders where the candles first appeared – if they showed up on the ground floor, nestled among the books, or maybe on the first floor with Aziraphale’s trunks and boxes. He wonders if Aziraphale miracled them up here or carried them by hand. He wonders how long it took for Aziraphale to think of this solution, to decide Crowley would be all right if only they did this here, out under the stars.

Aziraphale snaps, and the lamps and candles light.

They are breathtaking. Small flames in the darkness, but so _many_ of them, and Crowley is thrown back into the past at once.

It was early days, just after humans had scattered to the edges of the globe and began building wonders. Crowley and Aziraphale stood on the flat rooftop of one of those impressive human creations – a large stepped structure like the base of a pyramid, what would later be called a mastaba.

They had not spoken much to humans, yet. The first family, sure – Adam and Eve and their children – but now there were generations being born who would not understand an angel and a demon in their midst. Beelzebub had informed Crowley in flat tones that he would soon need to start passing as one of the humans, which made him shudder in disgust. Nothing wrong with humans, but their lives involved so much _dirt_ and _decay_. Any other demon would have loved that part of it, but Crowley had always been different. The difficult bits he could do – the discussion of the human condition, the small conversations, the prolonged subterfuge. But the dirt… Crowley was delaying that for as long as he could.

Aziraphale seemed to be in a similar state. Like Crowley, he was still going ’round with his wings out, at least here at night with the humans too far off to see. All Crowley could make out was their lights – hundreds of lamps and candles all over the desert. Some kind of festival, he knew that much. Osiris, if he had to guess. When Crowley came up from behind Aziraphale and stood beside him, they stayed quiet for a moment, contemplating the sight.

Aziraphale was the first to speak: _“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”_

 _“Not really my area,”_ said Crowley, who was still figuring out what being a demon _meant_ but knew beauty was emphatically not on the table.

 _“Oh,”_ said Aziraphale, disappointed. The sight of his disappointment cut Crowley to the core. He had only seen this angel a few times, and yet he was so unlike other angels – unlike any demon or human – just perfectly a thing of _his own_ , so special that Crowley’s attention was caught. This angel wasn’t supposed to look disappointed. He was supposed to be happy. Crowley wanted to make him that way.

Crowley wasn’t supposed to understand beauty, but he looked at those soaring white wings above blond curls and deep graybluegreen eyes and knew with complete certainty that he did.

 _“Well, the humans seem to like it, at least,”_ Aziraphale continued. _“Especially now, though I confess I’ve no idea why the ‘season’ is so important.”_

Crowley gave him a considering look. _“You don’t know about winter?”_

 _“What do you mean?”_ Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. He was always _fretting_. Crowley wanted to assure him that things would be okay. He settled for a lesson.

_“When the planet’s on this side of the sun, the top tips away a bit. ’S why it gets cold and the crops don’t grow. Supposed to get even colder at the poles – I haven’t been there yet, but that’s the theory. Haven’t you felt these cold winds here in the desert, at night?”_

_“Cold,”_ Aziraphale said with some hesitation. _“That’s when it isn’t_ hot _, yes?”_

Even for them, even there at the beginning of things, that was a bit of an obvious statement. “ _Yes,_ ” said Crowley, liking how amused this angel could make him. No one else on Earth or in Hell compared. _“That’s what that means.”_

 _“I suppose I don’t particularly feel it.”_ Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley in that darting way of his, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. _“You do?”_

 _“All the time,”_ Crowley confessed. He liked knowing that Aziraphale was warm, that he wasn’t similarly suffering. He wondered if Aziraphale’s skin would feel warm to the touch, the way Crowley’s hands felt cold on his own face – he wondered if heat radiated off the angel like a tiny sun. He wondered if those soft downy wings would encircle him and shield him from the cold, the way they had sheltered him from the rain not so long ago. He wondered if it was possible to convince Aziraphale to do just that. He didn’t know how to ask, though, and he had a sneaking suspicion his desire wasn’t very demonic, so he tried to let it go.

 _“I’m sorry,”_ Aziraphale said in that charmingly earnest way of his. Soft, like Crowley mattered. Like he was worth talking to, worth caring about. He was the first and only person to give Crowley a second glance. A moment passed and then: _“Crawly?”_

Crowley winced, although he didn’t know why. _Crawly_ just sounded so… wrong. Like something low and underfoot, something to be ignored or stepped upon. Maybe that made sense in Hell, but now that Aziraphale had looked at him the way he did sometimes, Crowley had begun to think that maybe he deserved a name that suited him more. A name to match the reflection he saw in Aziraphale’s eyes.

 _“Why do you know so much?”_ Aziraphale asked. _“About the planet and the sun.”_

Crowley had a distant memory that always played in the back of his mind – something about spinning stars from the stardust, about watching galaxies come together, about setting it all in alignment and then looking back to the heavens, _Did I do it right?_ And a voice that would answer: _It looks perfect, my child._ Beelzebub said that was nonsense, and he thought they were probably right. How could it possibly be true? But the more he tried to dismiss it, the stronger it grew, until the details threatened to drown him and he longed to claim the vision as his own. Until he was more certain, though, he didn’t want to place it before Aziraphale, who might know something to shatter it. _“Dunno,”_ he said. _“I just like thinking about the way the universe works, I guess.”_

_“Well, it’s very clever.”_

Crowley’s cheeks felt hot, suddenly, in the cold air. This corporation did that, sometimes, accompanied by a change in color. He didn’t know what it meant, but it always seemed to go along with Aziraphale’s praise.

They stared back out at the lights for a moment.

_“D’you think it’s fair? Us living among humans?”_

Aziraphale stiffened, following his habit of disapproval whenever Crowley talked philosophy. Crowley thought it was cute. (He hadn’t yet been worn down by rejection after rejection, by the pushing-away and the leaving that would follow that disapproval in times to come. He didn’t understand why Aziraphale was so annoyed by him asking questions, but he didn’t think it was a big deal. Only later would he come to bitterly resent that closing-off Aziraphale performed at the slightest hint of insubordination.) _“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

 _“Aw, c’mon,”_ said Crowley. _“I know your side must’ve given the same orders as mine. Blend in, change your shape, do your miracles up close.”_

 _“Well, if they_ had _,”_ said Aziraphale, _“it wouldn’t be our place to question whether it’s fair. If Heaven wills it, it must be right.”_

Crowley could have said _Like hanging onto your sword?_ , but he remembered how agonized Aziraphale had been at the thought of doing the wrong thing, and the last thing he wanted to do was cause this angel pain. _“Questioning is sort of what I do –”_

 _“Right,”_ Aziraphale muttered, and Crowley began to get an inkling of why he might fear asking questions.

_“– and if Heaven wills it? Really? Because Hell willed me to do the same thing. So if Heaven and Hell agree on something, does that make it right or wrong?”_

_“Maybe it’s Right when I do it and Wrong when you do it,”_ Aziraphale said, the capital letters plain in his speech despite not having been invented yet.

Now _that_ was insulting. _“Oi, how is that fair? Aren’t you supposed to be the fair one? We both do the same thing, but somehow mine’s bad?”_ Until he met Aziraphale, he hadn’t thought of _bad_ or _wrong_ as undesirable*. Now he mainly wanted to be whatever would make Aziraphale smile at him and say admiring things.

* _Of course, he hadn’t formed opinions on what ‘bad’ or ‘wrong’_ meant _, in Hell, and only on Earth did it become apparent that humans used the words to talk about someone who caused suffering, which he wasn’t always on board with. Heaven and Hell had their own definitions, which seemed to align or misalign with the humans’ definitions at random. And Aziraphale, no matter how much he claimed to agree with Heaven, had a different take altogether. The whole incident with Cain and Abel had proven that. Crowley’s beliefs were a work in progress._

 _“Well, I don’t know!”_ Aziraphale was wringing his hands. _“I’m sure there’s an answer. There’s always an answer.”_

 _“Right,”_ said Crowley with a huff, wondering if God regularly spoke to angels to give them their answers – if Aziraphale’s faith rested on conversations to which Crowley had lost access forever. He didn’t think so. He couldn’t imagine Aziraphale would be so conflicted if God were willing to talk to him about all this. She hadn’t bothered answering Crowley’s questions, either, before She cast him down to boil. Why couldn’t Aziraphale see that this was something they had in common?

 _“Why would you think it’s unfair to live with the humans, anyway?”_ Aziraphale asked.

Crowley started ticking off reasons on his fingers. _“We’re more powerful than them. So anytime we see something we might be able to help with, we either can’t do it, or we can but we keep it a secret, or we can but we give up the whole game and blow everything up before we even get started. And they’re not supposed to_ know _we’re more powerful than them, which means their decisions about us will be misinformed. We also know things about them that we couldn’t possibly know if we were just other humans, which seems like a massive invasion of privacy if you ask me. We’re getting involved in their short lives with the knowledge that we can just dip out whenever we want – doesn’t it sort of feel like we’re using them? Like we’re watching them from above and moving them around on a board, like we’re playing –”_ He broke off, because even at this early stage, he knew Aziraphale wouldn’t like that.

Aziraphale looked at him mistrustfully, like he sensed some closely averted blasphemy, but not like his mind had anticipated the rest of _playing God._

Crowley sighed. _“I just don’t know if us meddling makes them better off or worse, in the long run. And I’m not convinced they’d_ like _it if they knew what we were doing.”_

 _“It doesn’t matter if they_ like _it.”_ Aziraphale’s tone suggested Crowley was being ridiculous. _“We do what our respective sides say to do, and in the end, Heaven will prevail and everything will play out as it’s supposed to. That’s all that matters. They’re ‘better off’ if we stick to the Plan.”_ But there was always that little tremble at the bottom of Aziraphale’s voice, that hint he wasn’t as certain as he seemed.

Crowley decided it was time to use a new tactic he had invented just for Aziraphale: changing the subject so they could get out of dangerous conversational waters. _“Well, figure I won’t much like playing human anyway. Dirt everywhere.”_ (Aziraphale wrinkled his nose in sympathy.) _“Have to put away my wings,”_ Crowley said mournfully. _“I don’t want to. I like having them out.”_

 _“Indeed,”_ Aziraphale murmured. His eyes were roving over Crowley’s wings, then, and that wasn’t judgment in his expression. It was something else.

 _“They get all itchy like that, have you noticed?”_ Crowley looked at Aziraphale’s wings in turn, large and white and soft-looking, quivering slightly in the nighttime breeze. It would be a shame to fold those away into the other plane where they couldn’t be seen. They were – well. They were beautiful. Again he thought about what it would be like to bury his fingers among the feathers, smooth those that were misaligned (and there were plenty misaligned, he could see them from here, Aziraphale really needed to take better care of himself), coat them in their protective oil until they shone. Aziraphale’s wings looked different from his own, somehow fluffier, although they should have had the same sorts of feathers to go with their matching shapes, no difference but the color.

 _“I…”_ Aziraphale looked down in a way that meant he was embarrassed.

Crowley coaxed gently; he only went for blatant temptation when he _wanted_ to rile Aziraphale up. _“What is it?”_

_“I haven’t actually tried putting them away yet.”_

Crowley blinked. _“Want me to show you?”_ he asked, because though he didn’t want those pretty wings tucked out of sight, he wanted to be helpful for Aziraphale.

 _“I know_ how, _”_ Aziraphale said crossly. _“I just… well. I don’t see the point in doing it before I need to.”_

 _“You don’t want to practice?”_ And now Crowley was crossing the line into a bit of temptation, but he couldn’t _help_ it, really. It was just his personality. Nothing supernatural, here; he had decided early on never to use his powers on the angel – he wasn’t even sure they’d _work_ , but it felt wrong, somehow, to try. _“You don’t want your first time to happen when a human’s coming and you’re not quick enough at it. Give ’em an eyeful. Difficult to explain.”_

Aziraphale pursed his lips. _“I suppose you’re right. All right. Here.”_ He was clearly concentrating hard, but nothing happened.

Crowley watched closely. Maybe a bit of shimmering, in the wings, as they flexed like they were trying to fold in towards the center of Aziraphale’s body. _“You have to_ not want _them, for a moment,”_ he said when it seemed Aziraphale might appreciate some advice.

Aziraphale shot him a look that said he did _not_ appreciate the advice, nor the interruption, thank you very much. _“Not want them? How can I not_ want _them? Oh, this is ridiculous.”_

 _“Just – picture how it would feel to not have them here. To look like a human._ Feel _it, and then – decide that’s how you want things to be. And they will be.”_ Crowley popped his wings away to demonstrate, and also to show off, a little bit, because he could.

Aziraphale sighed doubtfully but did as instructed – closed his eyes and went still. The wings shimmered more, and then –

They were gone. Into the other plane. Crowley took a moment to grieve them.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and looked over his own shoulder, which didn’t work very well and also was adorable. _“Oh, it worked! Thank you,”_ he said, beaming. He was such a contradiction. One moment he would be rankled by Crowley’s attempts to help or soothe him, the next he would become gratitude itself, a ray of sunshine, like thanking demons was even something people _did_. Like he thought Crowley was worth it.

Crowley brought his own wings back out and couldn’t stifle a groan. _“Agh, I hate that. How do they itch so much when they’re busy not technically_ existing _?”_

Aziraphale did the same with a pained grimace. _“You’re right. That is… not pleasant.”_

 _“I suppose we’ll get used to it,”_ he said glumly. He sat down hard on the stone beneath him and tried to rub at a spot where his left wing met his back. It was awkward trying (and failing) to perform this contortion in front of Aziraphale, but it itched something awful.

Aziraphale must have come up behind him, because the next thing he felt was the touch of one angelic finger on his feathers. _“Does it hurt here? It must be difficult to –”_

Crowley barely got a moment to process the sensation, let alone enjoy it, before Aziraphale snatched his hand back as if he had been burned. Crowley worried he _had_ been, actually, that some essence of Hellfire lingered on his damned Fall-blackened feathers and hurt the one person in this world he wanted most to protect, but no. When he turned around, Aziraphale was looking away at the ground with his hand hanging forgotten at his side, none the worse for wear.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. _“Well. Anyway. You’re right. We’ll get used to it.”_

It was somehow so much more painful, to feel that touch and have it ripped away, than never to feel it at all. No one had offered a kind touch for his wings since he Fell. Some of the crueler demons liked to pull on the wings of the newcomers as they fought their way out of the sulphur pools, to grind the fine bones in their clawed hands and rip the feathers out in fistfuls, but Crowley had quickly learned to avoid them. He’d sweet-talked his way upward until they had let him come up here to cause trouble, and only afterward did he realize how important a role they’d given him with the whole Serpent of Eden thing. He planned to maintain his star status, to grow it, until no one could ever force him to be weak beneath them again.

His vague impressions of Heaven before the Fall, before angels knew anything of betrayal, included the _idea_ of grooming another’s wings, though the specifics were lost to him. In his fractured memory, it felt pleasant. They _must_ have been made that way, he thought, with so many areas that were difficult to reach. Why had God made them that way, knowing the whole time that some of them would Fall and it would be lost to them forever? Just one more thing to take up with Her if She ever dared face him again.

Aziraphale’s attention was back on his own hand, now – he was pressing the fingers together with a strange expression.

 _“What is this?”_ he asked.

Crowley went beside him to see and immediately yearned to sink down into the ground and never come out again. _“Oil,”_ he said. _“I’m sorry. I didn’t – let me –”_ He snapped and the sludge disappeared from Aziraphale’s skin. _“I know mine’s dark, probably matches the feathers, I didn’t mean to get it on you –”_ He had _dirtied_ his angel (his angel? Where was that coming from? Why did it sound right? Should he stop thinking it? _Could_ he?) and the shame of it roiled deep in his stomach. Of course he would mar everything he touched, everything that touched him, no matter his intentions.

 _“What is oil?”_ Aziraphale asked in genuine confusion.

_“What do you – it’s what you clean your feathers with, it’s – you’ve got glands, you – don’t you preen?”_

_“Not often,”_ Aziraphale said (Crowley managed not to say _I can tell_ ), _“but I don’t have that. Mine is –”_ He reached up to his own wing and carded a hand through the feathers (an entrancing sight), returning with some substance on it, though Crowley couldn’t tell anything more. He squinted. _“You must be familiar, I think it comes from the feathers. See?”_ Aziraphale turned his back to Crowley; it seemed headily like an invitation.

Crowley stepped forward and brought himself closer, close enough that he could smell the fine dust of the feathers, the sweet clean scent of the angel. His serpent’s tongue flicked the air for more before he could stop it, and he was pitifully grateful Aziraphale couldn’t see. And then his hand was moving of its own accord to rest on Aziraphale’s wing, smooth the fluffy feathers, gather some of the strange white powder for himself. Aziraphale shivered but did not stop him. Crowley stepped back, because he knew if he kept touching he would never stop. (That wasn’t true. Aziraphale would stop him – one word from him would be enough – because he was the sensible one; he could always be relied upon to know where the boundaries were. But if he didn’t…)

Later, much later, Crowley would find a book on ornithology and flip to the page about _powder down_ and read his fill. For now, he just knew that Aziraphale had extra feathers all made of fluff, and no oil glands to speak of. He and Aziraphale were the first beings to form their wings on the corporeal human plane. It made sense there would be surprises in store, little quirks they hadn’t known to expect. And it suited Aziraphale – all softness where Crowley had the oily slick.

Crowley would spend millennia wanting to bury his hands in that down; it was a good thing they rarely brought their wings out at all, because Crowley couldn’t be trusted to pay attention to anything else when Aziraphale’s were before him.

Now, on the modern-day rooftop, surrounded by candlelight, Aziraphale looks around and, all at once, brings out his wings.

Crowley forgets every word he has ever known.

“I thought, er…” Aziraphale trails off. “It’s so nice out here in the open air, to be able to stretch out, and no one can see. You could do the same?”

His angel is asking something of him, with that little I’m-not-pleading-but-I’m-pleading glint in his eye. Crowley’s wings appear without his brain needing to process the request.

“Oh, look how lovely,” Aziraphale breathes.

Crowley blushes _fiercely_.

And then Aziraphale frowns, just a little. “Have you been grooming them much? Only – yours are normally so – they’re still very handsome,” he says hastily. “But you see.”

Crowley spreads his wingtips forward and sees. Nothing terrible, but more feathers out of place than he’s allowed himself in centuries. (Still not as bad as Aziraphale’s, he notes with no small measure of vanity.) Because here’s the thing: whenever he has groomed, over the millennia, sat himself down and spent hours sliding sleek feathers through his hands, it has been to distract himself. And what he needed distraction _from_ was missing Aziraphale.

He’s spent so much time in Aziraphale’s company, since summer, that he hasn’t had _time_ to grow maudlin and need to indulge in that old self-care. But he can’t very well say that.

“Haven’t got ’round to it,” he says instead. “Need to, though. You’re right.”

Aziraphale does one of those long hesitations that makes Crowley nervous, not knowing what twist might be coming. “You know… I could. Do it. For you, I mean. I can reach.”

If Crowley’s brain was frozen before, now it has shut down for good. He attempts to speak, but all he manages is a noise something in the way of, “Ngk.”

“Or not,” Aziraphale says hastily. “Please don’t think I’m insisting, I just want you to be comfortable, and they must not feel very pleasant to you in that state, but if you don’t want –”

Don’t want? In what _universe_ is that a possibility? Has Aziraphale lost his _mind?_ “I want.” Crowley is horrified at the words coming out of him, but there’s very little he can do about it. “That is – ah, yeah. That would. That would be fine. If you want.”

Aziraphale smiles like a secret. “Then I do. Sit down?”

Crowley sits in a daze, met at eye level with candlelight.

“Bring them out, if you please,” says Aziraphale, settling somewhere close behind him.

Crowley moves them obediently to his sides. Then there’s the first slight rustle of an approaching touch and Crowley recalls with panic: “Wait, angel, I have – I have oil, remember? You’re not used to – you don’t want to, get it all over your hands, it’s fine –”

“I really do hope you have more faith in me than that.” Aziraphale presses his hands to the base of each wing, palms resting on scapular feathers, fingers stretching up over coverts. The push of them pours warm liquid straight down Crowley’s spine. “I do _read_.”

Crowley wonders briefly whether Aziraphale, too, has opened an ornithology book and searched for a certain page, and then Aziraphale is moving and all thought flies out of his head.

Aziraphale is meticulous in this as in all things. He gathers oil from the glands slowly, rubbing over them in a way that feels electric, then begins spreading it through with singular focus. He starts with a hand on each wing at once, moving symmetrically. When it comes time for finer detail, he sets both hands upon the right wing and begins combing through the feathers, pulling out loose ones, straightening disarray. Every small adjustment releases a tension from Crowley’s body that he didn’t even know he was holding. Aziraphale is gentle yet firm, and between each movement he traces his fingers along the skin beneath, which feels positively euphoric. Crowley thinks the words _heavenly_ and _divine_ and just barely remembers to discard them without quite remembering why.

Aziraphale switches to the other wing, and he’s murmuring something as he goes – has he been speaking the whole time? “There, that should feel better, my poor dear, you aren’t accustomed to this state at all, are you? This oil _does_ work well, I can see why you like it.” (Crowley’s brain briefly protests that he _doesn’t_ like it, in fact isn’t he supposed to hate it, hate himself? But he’s all floaty and the idea just doesn’t take like it usually does.) “You really do have such beautiful feathers, they aren’t just black at all, positively iridescent. One only needs look at them close up. It _is_ nice we have the right lighting,” Aziraphale continues as he moves along the wing. “There we go. Very good. It’s looking wonderful.”

Crowley might be _vibrating_ with contentment like a purring cat – he can’t tell from inside his dazed state, but he can guess. His eyelids are also dropping closed. His body is choosing reactions from all over the animal kingdom, bypassing ‘snake’ entirely, but that’s probably fitting given that all this is arising from wings*. He is absolutely certain Aziraphale is pulling whimpers from Crowley’s throat, soft moans and sighs, which Crowley will probably worry about later, but for now he just lets the tide take him away.

_*Of course the Aztecs got Quetzalcoatl from him, and it was a luxurious time, getting to lounge about in a truer form than his ordinary human shape and to be taken very seriously. People listened to him, and gave gifts to him, and looked at his winged serpent form and liked what they saw. He sometimes felt a little uneasy about the worship, but for a time it was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Still, as integral as his wings and the serpent are to his identity, they feel separate on the mortal plane._

When Aziraphale finally reaches the tip of his left wing and smooths that last primary into place, Crowley is boneless. He realizes he’s sunk onto his back only when he opens his eyes to see Aziraphale peering down at him, smiling.

“There you are,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley’s heart is so full that he can’t even think, just feel. If angels can really sense when a thing is loved, like Aziraphale told him months ago, this particular angel should be overcome. But he’s never reacted in all the millennia Crowley has been loving him, so it won’t give him away now. It’s possible the sensation is different when the loved thing is Aziraphale himself.

Crowley shifts to tuck his wings further under him where they belong; Aziraphale only moves to his shoulders and begins massaging there, and that’s it, Crowley is going to discorporate. Right now. In Aziraphale’s lap. Which is not a bad way to go, all things considered. “Mmnhhh,” he says, which was supposed to be a sentence but didn’t quite make it there.

Now Aziraphale is stroking his hair. It feels like he must have miracled the oil off himself at some point. “Good?” he says, still with that soft smile.

Crowley really does need to get his act together and say something. “You fixed me,” he mumbles finally, which isn’t what he was going for but is true in more ways than one, so he’ll take it.

“You haven’t even seen them yet,” Aziraphale chides.

“Know you did great.”

Aziraphale smooths a thumb over his forehead. “Silly serpent. You look half-asleep.”

“’m awake.” It’s true, but only by sheer stubborn force of will not to miss a second of this.

“All right.” Aziraphale has a certain tone he uses when he’s doubtful but magnanimously letting it go. Normally Crowley would contest it, but all the fight has drained out of his body alongside the tension.

Crowley catches sight of Aziraphale’s wings, glowing in the night. “Y’have to let me do you too,” says Crowley.

Aziraphale chuckles. “Another day. It’s past your bedtime.”

Crowley does roll his eyes at that, so at least some parts of his body are coming back under control. He counts himself lucky today’s choice of trouser configuration lends itself slightly less to incrimination than option two. “Nah, c’mon, stay up with me. Look at the stars.”

“All right,” says Aziraphale. “You’ll have to tell me what I’m looking at.”

By the time Crowley has told him all the names and constellations and space facts that come to mind, the candles have begun to flicker out around them. Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably and Crowley levers himself up before Aziraphale can make him. He sits back, across from Aziraphale, still liquid and content.

“Sorry. Leg’s asleep.” Aziraphale gives a self-conscious little grimace, and then Crowley’s grinning, and Aziraphale’s smiling in return.

Aziraphale looks out across the lamps and candles, so Crowley does too: they’re in colors of all sorts, reds and greens and blues. The last time he saw anything from this era, it was in a museum, chipped and weathered away to a point of near-unrecognizability. These are as pristine as the day they were formed, and Crowley says as much.

“That’s an interesting point,” says Aziraphale slowly, “and I’ve been thinking about it. Do you know the snowglobe went missing after 1906?”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m relatively certain the ornament did too. And I went back to look for the bell, but couldn’t find it anywhere – even with a miracle.”

Crowley can feel his eyes getting wide. His mind races.

“I also recall our cider and our candy cane stash lowering mysteriously,” Aziraphale adds. “It does raise the question…”

“They’re being pulled through time.” Crowley sits up straight, his body still warmly liquid, but now a liquid fire. “We’re literally stealing them from the past and moving them to the present. That’s insane. Do you know what that means?”

Aziraphale spreads his hands. “I confess I have little idea. It’s all a bit beyond me.”

“And do you think they get sent back? The bowl, I mean, _that_ went back. I’m assuming the lake did.” He gives Aziraphale a mischievous look that he knows will make him laugh, and it does. “Think we would’ve heard about it otherwise. Oh – and _that’s_ what you meant about stealing the hannukiah! I’ll send it back at the end, don’t worry. But this is – you understand this means we’re in a closed loop, right? The future affects the past!”

“Well, yes, we knew that,” Aziraphale says, which throws Crowley for a moment. “Agnes Nutter.”

Crowley slaps a hand to his forehead. “Right! Agnes Nutter. I always figured that was easy to explain, God came down and talked to her in a dream or some nonsense, except we know God doesn’t work like that, right? Not anymore, hasn’t done for ages. But if there’s some other mechanism passing information back to old Agnes, that makes sense. No need for God to involve Herself at all.”

“I would argue that God is already involved, and perhaps that’s how the objects are traveling too. If God knew, the whole time, that we would end up here – part of the –”

“Ineffable Plan,” Crowley says before Aziraphale can, but it’s fond, because there’s no reason to groan about it now, not after it saved everything.

“Yes, that – She could arrange for the objects to be missing from the past at the right time to appear in the present.”

“That – that’s just unnecessary, that is. You’re adding all these extra steps. It doesn’t need to be that complicated. Reach back, yoink it forward, Bob’s your uncle.” Aziraphale mouths the word _yoink?_ in the way Crowley says _wiggle on_ or _tickety-boo_ , so Crowley presses on before _that_ can become a Thing. “Direct contact, no intermediary… if She’s doing it Herself, why go to all the trouble of making it go missing? Shouldn’t be a problem for Her to have two floating around.”

“It doesn’t sound any less complicated to _me_.”

“Look, so… say you’ve got a coin, right? I mean, a coin’s not actually random –”

“Especially when Edinburgh’s involved,” Aziraphale says under his breath, which Crowley elects to ignore.

“But say it is, and it really _could_ come up either way, fifty-fifty. One idea is that instead of one thing happening, or the other, _both things happen_. And it makes these –” Crowley does an illustrative finger wiggle that doesn’t appear to land with much clarity. “Two universes, yeah? Two whole universes, separate and everything. And then you go on from there and if you flip it in both of them again you get four –”

“Which one is God in?” Aziraphale asks.

“All of them! None of them! Who _cares_ where God is?” Crowley says excitedly, which earns him a long-suffering look from Aziraphale, but they both know he only does it out of habit. “So with time travel, you can keep going back and you keep spawning _new_ universes over and over again until you land in one that matches what you’re _going_ to do in the future. And all those other universes you spawned – maybe they die off, but maybe they keep going, just like the ones we branched off with the coin.”

“ _We_ didn’t do any such thing,” says Aziraphale. Crowley does a quick check on his expression and finds it’s still mostly fond, so he keeps going.

“So to steal these things from the past, it could be that each time, we’re looping back until we land in something that matches what we’re going to do. Or it could be that _all_ of them happen, whether we do it or not, whatever _way_ we do it, and it just plops us into the right universe, since all of them already exist at once. Or… well, there’s loads of other things like that, and I’m wondering, if we test it out, whether we can rule any of them out, maybe even find out _which one it is._ ”

“Or God knew from the beginning what would happen, and arranged it one and only way, according to the Ineffable Plan,” Aziraphale says.

“Yeah, but that’s not as _fun_.” Crowley sighs. “So what do you think?”

“I think I was expecting more syllables.” Aziraphale smiles, still fond, like he’s willing to take Crowley as he is, rambles and all. “Let’s get you to bed before you break the universe.”

Crowley grumbles but stands. Everything feels floaty and warm, body at peace with itself. He tucks his wings back into their pocket plane and it doesn’t even hurt.

“Why don’t you stay in mine? I don’t _use_ it anyway. And it’s nearly sunrise, I’ll need to be in the shop soon, lots to do.”

“Nearly sunrise?” Then Crowley processes the rest. “Stay in _yours?”_

“Well, I won’t be needing it.” Aziraphale is definitely blushing. “You’re just borrowing it, really. You can go if you like. I just see no reason to, save what you prefer.”

Crowley blinks. _I just see no reason to._ How many years, how many centuries has he seen no reason to part from Aziraphale at the end of the night? How many millennia has he defined home as _wherever the angel is?_

He needs to calm down. It’s just a favor. It’s not like he’s moving in.

“Yeah, sure. Thanks much.”

He loves the Bentley, really, but he doesn’t love the idea of driving at the moment; now he’s stood up, the drowsiness has trickled back into his limbs, and all he wants is a flat surface.

Aziraphale goes with him to the bedroom (not how he wanted that sentence to occur, but he’ll take it) and watches him climb under the covers. “Don’t you have pyjamas?” he asks worriedly, and Crowley does a theatrical snap.

“There,” Crowley says, raising his eyebrows, fully aware Aziraphale cannot see him under the covers and can imagine whatever he likes*. Maybe Crowley’s pushing it, but he’s high on the excitement of the night and he wants to make Aziraphale blush one more time.

* _The reality is a vest and boxers, which is more than he usually bothers with, but needs must and all._

Aziraphale does. Crowley hopes it isn’t purely with discomfort; maybe he’ll never know for sure. “Sleep well, my dear,” he says, and strokes the top of Crowley’s head. Crowley melts into the touch. He’s not totally sure this isn’t an elaborate, sleep-deprived fever dream.

What he wouldn’t have given to know this was his future, that day in Egypt with the candles and the memory of an angel’s soft wing on his fingertips. To know it wasn’t the end, when the day ended. Because it did end, after hours of delightful conversation, and Crowley wasn’t expecting it at all.

 _“Perhaps we ought not to spend time together,”_ Aziraphale said, apropos of nothing.

_“What? Why not?”_

_“Well… I don’t think our respective sides would_ like _it.”_ He was wringing his hands _and_ pacing now.

_“I don’t give a toss what they think. I like spending time with you.”_

He’s still not sure what did it – the first part, the second part, or both – but that was the wrong thing to say. _“You can’t. You need to leave. Now.”_

_“I was here first –”_

_“_ Now _, Crawly.”_ The name hit Crowley like a fist to the gut. It was not said fondly. _“This is wrong. We can’t – we can’t do this. You’ll only get me into trouble.”_

Crowley said languidly, _“That’s me. Trouble,”_ like the proper demon he wasn’t, like he was relishing the compliment, and turned to go.

 _“There have to be rules!”_ Aziraphale called after him, continuing a discussion Crowley had already checked out of. _“Otherwise –”_

 _“World ends, chaos reigns, yeah, got it. Right, look me up_ after _the world ends, yeah?”_

 _“Crawly…”_ This one still wasn’t quite fond, but it was softer. _“I’m an angel. You’re a demon. You know that, right?”_

 _“Couldn’t forget. Satan knows_ you _won’t let me.”_

_“We simply can’t spend time together. My side won’t allow it. And I don’t think yours will, either.”_

_“Guess we’re never going to find out. Have a nice winter, Aziraphale. I’ll be spending mine alone.”_ And he left before his angel could say anything more.

It was their first real fight, and now, with Aziraphale smiling so close in the darkness, Crowley can’t believe how far they’ve come. He can’t believe they got so lucky.

“I like spending time with you,” he says, an accidental echo, his voice dreamy.

“I like spending time with you, too,” Aziraphale replies, looking amused (he always does when Crowley gets sleepy) but sincere. “And I’m so glad for this winter, dear. Glad we’re not spending it alone.”

Crowley mumbles something that vaguely resembles _Good night_ and closes his eyes. But he knows he’s not imagining it when Aziraphale presses his lips to Crowley’s forehead, just before he whispers his own _Good night_ and heads downstairs.

That’s something for Crowley to think about tomorrow. (And every day, forever and ever, until the end of time… he is already hoarding the memory of the touch, ranking it on his mental list entitled The Closest Aziraphale Has Ever Been To Me, which has multiple new entries from tonight.) For now, his body is heavy with warmth, his feathers neat on another plane, his heart filled up with his angel. He sighs his most contented sigh, safe and cozy beneath the tartan duvet, and drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it y’all, our first “ngk”
> 
> In my head, wing grooming feels like an amalgamation of a back massage, ASMR, and that thing where they wash your hair in warm water at the hair salon. And that’s without factoring in any… _reaction_ you might have to your particular attendant.
> 
> I learned about powder down and HAD to use it. It’s actually made from the tips of continuously growing down feathers that crumble off. It’s rare – parrots, herons, some pigeons, and a few _ridiculous_ birds (look: [bitterns](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b1/Ixobrychus_involucris.jpg/330px-Ixobrychus_involucris.jpg)! [bustards](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/9e/Ardeotis_kori_Etosha.JPG/390px-Ardeotis_kori_Etosha.JPG)! [tinamous](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/ef/Stavenn_Eudromia_elegans_00.jpg/330px-Stavenn_Eudromia_elegans_00.jpg)!) have it, and there’s a lot we don’t understand about where it came from or how it works. But it is FLOOF and therefore it is Aziraphale.
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘ugly sweater’: The commercialization of Christmas reaches a peak as Crowley tampers with the line-up of Santa’s reindeer just to get under Aziraphale’s skin. Meanwhile, in the present day, Aziraphale waits for Crowley to awaken and finds himself watching over a very peaceful, dreaming snake. He decides it’s high time to bring some of his hoarded Crowley gifts out into the light.


	12. Ugly Sweater

There is a snake in Aziraphale’s bed.

It took him some time to notice. After he left Crowley to sleep, he managed two hours downstairs before he couldn’t resist returning to check on him. And there, in the cozy darkness of the bedroom, a serpent’s form coiled under the covers, nearly too large to fit on the bed. As Aziraphale opened the door, he caught sight of a tail pulling itself back under the blanket, perhaps stirred by the rush of air.

Very gently, Aziraphale lifted the top of the duvet and found Crowley’s head nestled in the middle. With no eyelids, Crowley’s snake form offered few signs that he was sleeping, but Aziraphale had grown adept at reading them over the years. His tongue, for one, made no appearance to taste the air, and his pupils were as thin as they could go. His body was relaxed and still. And most importantly, he did not lift his head to talk to Aziraphale when he entered the room.

He did, however, slither unconsciously in Aziraphale’s direction. That great dark head came to rest on the pillow beside Aziraphale’s hand. Slowly, Aziraphale placed that hand on top of that head, stroking its cool scales. Crowley curled up towards the touch but did not wake.

It was very difficult to walk away, but he’d left the shop open, so he reluctantly returned. Since then, every half hour or so, he’s been ducking back up to watch Crowley in the dark. He’s beautiful like this – he’s _always_ beautiful – and so peaceful. Aziraphale feels a rush of possessiveness to see him there, in his bed, tucked away and vulnerable in this secret room, trusting Aziraphale to handle what the world brings. Crowley deserves this time to relax and be safe. And he looks so calm and sweet, looped there among the blankets in twists and circles, chin still resting on the pillow where Aziraphale normally sleeps.

He makes it until 2 p.m. before he gives in, flips the sign to _Closed_ , and ascends the stairs with a book in hand.

It takes some nudging to get Crowley to move enough for Aziraphale to slide in beside him. Aziraphale settles on the right side of the bed, sitting up against the headboard. Immediately Crowley slides back over, head nudging under his elbow, tail wrapping around his ankle. Aziraphale chuckles and runs his hand down the scales of Crowley’s back. Crowley reacts with languid ripples.

Hesitantly, Aziraphale manifests a small spark of light hovering above them. He starts it dim and gradually increases it until it’s just bright enough to read by. Crowley does not stir. Aziraphale opens the book on his lap, not particularly interested in the text but not sure if he wants to be caught watching Crowley sleep like he’d be happy to do it for the rest of his life. Which he would. Well, eventually he’d miss Crowley’s waking company, but for now he is content. If Crowley were slumbering in a tower like something out of a fairy tale, Aziraphale would stand guard by his side for the rest of eternity and not begrudge a moment of it. Although he dares think such a slumber wouldn’t last long, with Aziraphale there to provide the requisite true love’s kiss.

He strokes the top of Crowley’s head and thinks that perhaps he would kiss it now, were it not tucked under his arm beside his hip; as things stand, multiple coils have joined the tail in keeping him still, and he doesn’t want to move and perturb them. Proper kisses are out of the question for now*, but Aziraphale has managed two forehead kisses so far** and is keen on collecting more.

* _This has nothing to do with his form, only the practical matter of Crowley not being awake. It is all Crowley, whether he’s one sort of (mostly-)human or she’s another or they’re another besides, whether he’s snake-ish or that winged serpent form from the Aztec Empire or his true form, which Aziraphale has only seen in flashes, long enough to get an impression of powerful coils and burning coals and inky darkness like a rend in the fabric of space and time. Aziraphale loves all of him. There are some logistical concerns about meeting that wide serpent’s maw with human lips, fangs factoring heavily, but it’s nothing that can’t be solved with a little ingenuity and a can-do attitude._

** _Once last night, of course, which Crowley accepted with a dazed and brilliant smile; the other three days before, after Aziraphale braided his hair and he fell asleep on the bookshop sofa. Not that Aziraphale is counting. But so what if he is? It’s a privilege and an honor to be allowed this closeness at last, and he will adore every single second of it._

Aziraphale loses track of time, petting his serpent’s scales, and doesn’t read a word. It’s 7 p.m. when next he thinks to check. This is Crowley, so who knows if this nap will last for hours or days – although a couple days more and Aziraphale will at least wake him to ask how long, because some arrangements would need to be made. And it would be a shame for Crowley to miss out on any December miracles. (Aziraphale did resolve to be more flexible about his plan, but he has a long list of gift ideas and time is simply flying by. He wonders if it would be bad form to pick up the pace a bit. He initially planned to choose one object per day, only one memory so as not to overwhelm Crowley. But Crowley does seem to be getting better at accepting affection.)

What’s funny is that Aziraphale has seen this particular snake lounging under bedcovers before, though at the time he didn’t dare to touch.

It started with a group of American tourists who came through the bookshop in 1939. Aziraphale lurked behind a shelf to fend off any requests for assistance, watching through a gap to jump in if they showed any sign of harming* the books.

* _Examples of harm include: dropping, moving, picking up, breathing on, or staring at for too long. Buying, of course, is the ultimate harm, because it opens the book up to endless further abuses while out from under Aziraphale’s watchful eye._

 _“Does this place seem_ off _to you?”_ one of the American women asked.

 _“It’s creepy,”_ said another, shivering and crossing her arms around herself. (Unseen, Aziraphale swelled with pride.) _“Do you think it’s haunted?”_

 _“This is nothing,”_ a third scoffed. _“Montgomery Ward has a_ snake _.”_

Aziraphale forgot all subterfuge and listened in raptly. Urban legends about suspiciously sentient snakes with yellow eyes had a habit of making their way to him, which could have been a feature of the Ineffable Plan but could merely have spoken to Crowley’s absurdly strong penchant for spreading spooky stories about himself among the humans.

 _“A_ snake _?”_ the second woman asked, eyes widening in alarm.

 _“Yes!”_ The third’s voice lowered to a campfire volume. _“They say it lives there in the dark corners of the store and comes out at night. If you look closely, you might even see it during the day, but if you try to point it out to someone else it disappears like it was never there.”_

 _“I heard it eats children,”_ the first woman chimed in, and Aziraphale laughed. All three of the tourists glanced up at his bookshelf hiding spot and fled the shop immediately.

Aziraphale had caught sight of Crowley across streets and rooms a few times since their argument over the holy water, though he didn’t think Crowley had ever seen him. Crowley had always seemed focused on whatever work he was doing – there was none of his usual engagement with festivities, no head thrown back in laughter, no drink in his hand, and certainly no approaching Aziraphale from behind to startle and please him with his company. Now, suddenly, an unexpected lead. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if Crowley would want to see him. He wasn’t sure if _he_ was ready to see _Crowley_ – what if Crowley asked again? How long could Aziraphale deny him?

He meant to think about it, take his time with the decision, but he found himself heading to America the very next day.

It wasn’t quite instantaneous. Instant teleportation was a massive expenditure that required prior authorization from Upstairs (or Downstairs, as the case may be). Gabriel, who could rubber-stamp his own requests, jumped about at will and was always unbearably smug about it. For Aziraphale to get approval required tons of paperwork and weeks of turnaround, and more likely than not he would be denied anyway.

That said, crossing oceans the human way was a nightmare, especially when one couldn’t turn into a snake and sleep away the journey. Sometime in the sixteenth century, Crowley and Aziraphale had conspired to convince Heaven and Hell to maintain a few metaphysical bridges between continents. _“That angel keeps showing up before I get there,”_ Crowley told Beelzebub, _“blessing the place to bits. If you want me there ahead of him, maybe what we need is a little advantage.”_ _“I need to be able to thwart the movements of the demon Crowley,”_ said Aziraphale at the same time, in Heaven, _“and I can’t do that if he keeps getting places so quickly. I think Hell must have a – a secret method, a trick. I don’t see how he’s doing it.”_ _“Heaven’s got a gate or something, I know it,”_ Crowley added in Hell, _“and we don’t. We’re losing.” “It’s vital to the future implementation of Heaven’s desires on Earth,”_ Aziraphale continued. Afterwards they met up in Australia, because they could now; Crowley got the drinks from South America and Aziraphale brought proper sushi from Japan. There was a gate on every continent, concealed in the same manner as the entrances to Heaven and Hell, plus an extra in London. This made their work a great deal easier and incidentally made it very simple, if sometimes ill-advised, to pop over to Paris for some crêpes.

So Aziraphale stepped out into Chicago the same day and made his way to the Montgomery Ward department store.

The war was much less immediate in America, the holiday atmosphere less tempered. Aziraphale entered the shop and asked some pointed questions about snakes, which earned him strange looks and at least one furtive glance at security; he resigned himself to a physical search. Passing by the linens section, he suddenly felt sure he’d heard Crowley’s voice, although no words reached his ears.

After several paces back and forth he realized it wasn’t so much a _voice_ as a _feeling_ – the same feeling Aziraphale always got when Crowley approached him, which had been accompanied by speech every time before. Only now did he notice this separate sense of his that apparently didn’t depend on seeing or hearing Crowley at all. It was a homey, welcoming sensation, that hint of scales and smoke, that steady presence. Aziraphale didn’t know what it meant that he could feel this – that he had been feeling this for centuries, perhaps millennia, without knowing – and he didn’t want to think about it. Couldn’t let himself think about it.

Instead he narrowed his search to a bed at the end of an aisle, likely used to display fancy linens for sale. The rumpling of the covers bore telltale curves. Aziraphale lifted one side of the blanket slowly.

Crowley’s eyes stared back, and Aziraphale was certain he’d been caught out, but then the serpent shifted, coiling in on himself, and Aziraphale considered that he might be sleeping.

He stared for several minutes, heart soft. It was good to see Crowley alive and well (to the extent that a sleeping snake could be confirmed to be well – not visibly injured, at any rate, not captured or discorporated, but solid and breathing and _there_ ). He wondered if he should stay until Crowley woke. They could have a conversation. Get things back on track. Maybe go out for a bite – Aziraphale hadn’t been here since Prohibition and he wondered how the culinary landscape had changed.

Aziraphale reached out without thinking, millimeters from touching scales, then caught himself with mounting horror. He snatched his hand away and dropped the covers back into place. What was he doing? He couldn’t _touch_ Crowley, even to see if he was all right. Why did he want to? What was this temptation when Crowley wasn’t even awake to tempt him? He had to get out of there before he forgot himself entirely.

It was on his way out that an enthusiastic shop assistant shoved a booklet into Aziraphale’s hands with an exhortation to _“bring in the wife and kids for some holiday shopping at amazing prices!”_. He looked down at the front of it. _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,_ it said. He took it back to the bookshop and read it with mild curiosity, then shelved it with no idea what lay in store.

Wartime paper restrictions arrived, and Montgomery Ward passed out no more booklets for years. The Blitz came and went, and with it Aziraphale’s heart as he finally put all the pieces together and realized how desperately he loved Crowley and how impossible it would be to ever, ever act upon it. They reconciled, Aziraphale tending to his poor darling feet, and continued to meet like they had never parted.

One of these meetings found them back in Chicago, and Crowley steered them toward Montgomery Ward before Aziraphale knew what was happening. He only noticed when he turned around and found Crowley flipping through one of the Rudolph booklets with glee.

 _“They’re doing it again!”_ Aziraphale groaned. _“I don’t believe it!”_

 _“What, this little story? You don’t like it?”_ Crowley asked innocently.

 _“You know very well what you did, serpent,”_ said Aziraphale. He had long since concluded that Crowley’s slumbering presence in the shop had been no coincidence. Aziraphale had a personal history with _A Visit From St. Nicholas_ and the eight _correct_ reindeer names – a fact of which Crowley was well aware. This sort of tampering could only have been carried out with mischievous intent.

 _“No idea what you’re talking about.”_ Crowley lounged against a wall in an improbable configuration of limbs.

 _“They’re talking about it everywhere,”_ Aziraphale complained. _“Every Christmas. Commercialism was already bad enough, but now there’s this Rudolph character flying about with his light-up nose like a_ mascot _. And to think, all for this shop to make more money! It’s butchered the line-up, you know – I heard a mother try to place him in the poem the other day, and let me tell you,_ ‘On Donder and Blitzen, and Rudolph too!’ _neither rhymes_ nor _scans remotely. It’s atrocious.”_

Crowley grinned. _“Not a fan, I take it?”_

Aziraphale didn’t dignify that with an answer.

_“C’mon, ’s not a bad poem. Good moral and all. Very uplifting.”_

_“It isn’t about the_ story _,”_ Aziraphale said. _“It’s gone beyond that now. It’s practically canonical – nine reindeer! I think I’ve seen lightning take longer to travel than this did. What on Earth did you do, write it yourself?”_

 _“No, ’course not. You think I’m a poetry person?”_ Crowley looked uncomfortable, though Aziraphale at the time could not imagine why. (The Aziraphale of the present reaches this part of the memory and smiles fondly, having something of a better idea.) _“Look, they had this bloke coming up with an idea for the copy and he did it all on his own. Got to talking one day, he was a bit nervous over shaking up the Santa tradition. I told him to go for it.”_

_“And that’s all that was needed? A little encouragement?”_

_“Well. The execs took a little encouraging as well.”_ Crowley’s grin grew wider and Aziraphale huffed.

_“And here I thought you were out doing important assignments.”_

Crowley’s expression went serious. _“I was. I was – sleeping, mostly. But I got the call from, you know. They had me come out here for a thing across the street, I just happened to pop in and… nice spot for a nap here, actually. One thing led to another… world has a new reindeer.”_

 _“I just hope you’re proud of yourself,”_ says Aziraphale.

 _“Oh, I am,”_ Crowley replied with relish, making Aziraphale wonder why he’d expected anything else.

They moved on to another section of the shop, where Crowley rifled through clothing, jumping back and forth as his short attention span dictated. He was always doing this, examining the make of clothing, calculating trends, lifting details to use in his own miracles. He didn’t usually buy any of it. Aziraphale grew distracted by a nearby display of mugs and only turned around when he heard Crowley’s voice:

 _“Angel.”_ Crowley was holding an absolute _monstrosity_ of a jumper. Garish colors clashed across the fabric in wide stripes, busy patterns colliding with no regard for taste. Aziraphale and Crowley may have had very different aesthetic preferences, but this – this _thing_ violated every principle at once. Reindeer and other creatures (was that a _moose?_ ) marched up and down between trees with omni-colored ornaments, with stripes of elves in Santa hats going the other way, not to mention the lopsided snowflakes filling every conceivable free space.

 _“Is that for_ sale _?”_ Aziraphale asked in a voice filled with scandal.

_“Yup.”_

_“That is the least visually pleasing jumper I have ever seen.”_

_“Sweater,”_ said Crowley, nodding at the sign above. _“Could be yours for only five dollars. Tempted?”_

 _“I don’t…”_ Aziraphale looked around wildly. _“Where did that even_ come _from, it doesn’t match anything else in the shop, there’s nothing like it. I can’t imagine anyone making that deliberately, let alone in this setting!”_ He stared at the display’s other jumpers, which featured shades of navy and grey, as if they would reveal their secrets. Then he had a thought and narrowed his eyes at Crowley. _“You didn’t just miracle that up, did you?”_

Crowley looked genuinely offended. _“Does that_ seem _like something I would do?”_ He gestured up and down himself. _“What part of_ this _suggests anything_ like _this?”_ He rattled the jumper at Aziraphale, who was trying and failing not to accept the invitation to trail his gaze down Crowley’s body.

 _“It isn’t quite a reindeer with a scarlet lightbulb, but it doesn’t seem entirely out of the line,”_ said Aziraphale, donning a sweet smile with a razor’s edge.

Comparing the monstrosity to Crowley’s fashion sense was a grave insult, and Aziraphale absolutely deserved it when they got back to the bookshop and Crowley dropped a package onto his lap. _“Happy Christmas,”_ said Crowley, although it wasn’t yet.

Aziraphale opened it with suspicion and found the hideous jumper inside. _“You shouldn’t have,”_ he said dryly.

 _“Well, I could never wear it, but it looks like it was just_ made _for you,”_ Crowley singsonged, swerving as Aziraphale tossed a ball of tissue paper at his head.

Aziraphale placed the jumper in one of his souvenir trunks, because as ugly as it was, it was a gift from Crowley, and therefore could never be discarded. As the years went by, he even thought of it fondly (though never enough to actually put it _on_ ). And he came to think fondly of Rudolph too, after he caught Crowley rereading the booklet that same night, when they had both been mellowed by evening and a few glasses of merlot.

 _“’S a good story, really,”_ Crowley said from where he was draped lazily over the sofa. _“C’n you imagine? Everybody looks at you and there’s one thing you can’t change, just one thing, but it’s enough, you know you’ll never be like them. Can’t blend in for anything. And then suddenly – it turns out to have a_ use _, you know? Must be nice.”_

Crowley’s glasses were on, covering those yellow serpent’s eyes, the eyes he could never shift away, eyes that betrayed his demonic nature as surely as a pentagram or a bolt of Hellfire, and Aziraphale looked up from his own book, feeling his face soften. _“Oh, Crowley.”_

Crowley shrugged. _“Never really saw the appeal of reindeer games anyway.”_

Now, with Crowley’s serpent head tucked under his arm and his body coiled around Aziraphale’s legs, creeping up around his torso, Aziraphale’s heart squeezes tight. Maybe that’s another thing he can work on. Telling Crowley how absolutely, breathtakingly lovely he is, until he finally believes it. Or should he ask Crowley if that will help, consult him instead of trying to divine his needs from afar? Crowley deserves a say, but then, too serious a conversation and he’s frightened off! Why does this have to be so complicated?

It’s 8 p.m. now and Aziraphale’s corporation is rumbling with growing hunger. He holds out as long as he can, not wanting to get up, but eventually gives in and shifts Crowley off of him one coil at a time. He’s heavy in snake form and Aziraphale taps into a tiny amount of his true form strength in order to move him. He manages it without Crowley waking up (at least, he assumes, from what he can tell) and scrapes together a meal from what he has in the kitchen, not wanting to leave the building when Crowley is there and vulnerable. (Yes, Crowley sleeps every night at his own flat, and yes, Aziraphale’s wards are similarly formidable, but Aziraphale feels a responsibility, as if some trust has been placed in him over this. And he’s quite enjoying himself.)

He returns upstairs with a plate of madeleines to munch on and pulls one of the trunks back out from under his bed. There in the 1940s-50s section he finds it: the jumper in question.

It’s softer than he remembered. Still a riot of color, and not attractive by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s fond of it all the same. He slips it over his head and climbs back into bed, not bothering with the pretense of the book light.

Crowley moves and tests the air with a flick of his tongue. At first Aziraphale thinks he’s awakening, but no; he flops back down and then twitches strangely. There’s a vague suggestion of a hiss, and then a jumble of syllables that may resemble a word, although as to which word Aziraphale cannot hazard a guess.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says. It sounds disproportionately loud in the long-quiet room.

Another hiss. Crowley writhes, tail slipping off the bed, and then he settles again with something like a sigh. His head comes to rest atop Aziraphale’s knee. The noises continue irregularly, almost approaching words but never quite. Aziraphale strokes down Crowley’s head to his body. Crowley twitches again, not harshly, just a small movement. Aziraphale wishes he knew how to read Crowley better like this. So many millennia and yet there are still things he doesn’t know about his serpent. At least he has time to find out, now – endless time to learn everything there is to learn about the being he loves with all his heart.

He sits there for untold minutes, feeling Crowley’s small movements under his hand and listening to his gibberish whispers. The tone of them is pleased and content, no anguish there, nothing like a nightmare or else Aziraphale would have woken him up* the moment it began.

* _He doesn’t exactly know_ how _that would work – do you shake a snake awake? – but he would have figured it out, no matter what it took, were Crowley in distress._

Another hour later, Crowley goes suddenly still beneath him. Aziraphale lifts his hand from him calmly and returns it to his own side, not wanting to overwhelm, acutely aware of Crowley’s coils once again wrapped around his ankles and up his calves, Crowley’s tail around his midsection.

“Angel?” Crowley asks, and it’s precious, the way that whispering serpent’s tone turns muzzy with sleep.

“Right here,” Aziraphale says, and he can’t help stroking his thumb down Crowley’s side, just once. “Did you sleep well?”

Crowley unwinds from around Aziraphale, slithering away towards the foot of the bed, leaving Aziraphale feeling perhaps more bereft than he ought. “Shit, okay, hold on –” He shudders and melds and then he’s back to his more human form, lying across the bed in boxers and a thin vest. Aziraphale very much wants to embrace him. Crowley glances down and seems to realize where he is, sitting up abruptly, snapping his fingers so he’s dressed in his ordinary day clothes. “Sssssorry, I didn’t mean to – I don’t usually turn unless –”

“I don’t mind,” Aziraphale says mildly, adding a gentle smile, hoping to ease Crowley into a place of comfort. There has to be a way to transition back into waking intimacy, the way they’ve been these past evenings, without scaring him off entirely. He folds the covers down to a more sensible position and pats the bed beside him, the other pillow. It’s a perfectly decent place for Crowley to sit. They wouldn’t be much closer than on the sofa.

Crowley looks at his hand, then at his face, then – “Angel,” (his eyes grow wide with unrestrained glee) “what are you _wearing?”_

Aziraphale remembers the jumper. He can feel himself blushing. “Don’t you remember?”

“Of course I _remember_ , I don’t think I could _bleach_ that out of my mind, ’s a bloody fashion crime. Didn’t mean to force it on you, though.”

As if simply giving him a thing equated to forcing. “You didn’t. I put it on of my own accord, I assure you. What do you think?” He holds his arms to the sides, presenting himself for assessment.

Crowley stares for a long moment, clearly undergoing a struggle, and then chortles. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t – it’s so bad, you know it’s so bad, right? There are literally no redeeming qualities.”

“It’s soft,” says Aziraphale with a pout, holding out one arm for evaluation. Crowley dutifully touches the sleeve.

“All right, one redeeming quality, but c’mon, you could whip that up in any color you like. No need for all… this.” He flicks a hand in indication.

“But that isn’t the point! It’s festive!”

“It’s terrifying. _You’re_ terrifying.”

“I’m festive,” Aziraphale mutters.

“Yeah, sure you are.”

Aziraphale looks up abruptly. This is perfect. “You need to be festive too.”

“What? No –”

He snaps and a bundle of fabric falls onto Crowley’s lap. Crowley lifts it gingerly and holds it up for view.

It’s another jumper, of course, this one _slightly_ less frightening (Aziraphale isn’t _cruel_ ) but in keeping with the general theme. It’s a deep evergreen with a white design of snowflakes and reindeer with little holly leaves in between. He has given red noses to the reindeer, but only a few of them; he couldn’t decide whether he wanted Crowley to notice, so the miracle created a compromise.

“Go on, then,” says Aziraphale encouragingly.

“No. Absolutely not.” Crowley’s voice is flat, and he drops the jumper to give Aziraphale a baleful look.

“Please?” Aziraphale puts on one of his best convincing-Crowley expressions, lips twitching, eyes pleading.

Crowley groans. “That’s not fair.”

“I just want to see it on you. I think you’ll look dashing.” Aziraphale reaches over to nudge the jumper back onto Crowley’s lap.

“Do I _have_ to?”

“I’d like you to,” says Aziraphale, and that’s what does it; he’s been queueing up further reasons in his mind, but it turns out he doesn’t need any of them. That’s all he has to say, which is heady and touching and terrifying.

Crowley snaps, because he has some aversion to putting on clothing like an ordinary person. And he _does_ look nice. Not ravishing (well, not any more than usual, since Crowley looks a baseline amount of ravishing in literally anything), but cozy.

“Oh, excellent! Now, do you have your mobile? I would like to get a photograph of us – Madame Tracy sent the most darling Christmas card, and I think I ought to return the favor. Oh, and one to Anathema of course – she’s that dear girl who was so kind as to lend us Agnes Nutter’s book –”

“Yeah, I know who she is, and you’re not sending her a picture of this, she will _never_ let me live it down.”

Aziraphale’s heart swells. “You’ve been talking with Anathema?”

Crowley looks uncomfortable, which just won’t do. “’S not a big deal, she just has some questions about demon stuff, and anyway, you’re one to talk, you’ve been in touch with them since –”

“That’s wonderful!” Aziraphale is positively beaming, and he has to focus hard not to say any of the words Crowley hates, not to mention how kind or nice it is. “I’ve answered what questions I can, but there are some things I just don’t understand. You’re so clever about these things, I’m glad she’s consulting with you.”

 _Clever_ was a good word, apparently; Crowley reddens and looks away but can’t seem to help a smile. “Yeah. Anyway, I can’t _believe_ I finally get you to take a selfie and _this_ is what I have to endure for it.”

“Does that mean you will?”

Crowley grumbles but climbs over to sit beside Aziraphale. “Fine,” he says, “but I’d better not find this anywhere embarrassing.”

Aziraphale is definitely going to develop it* and hang it in the back room of the shop, which Crowley doesn’t need to know until he’s already done it so Crowley can’t stop him.

* _However one develops a selfie. He isn’t sure: is it still done in a darkroom, or is it one of those newfangled Polaroids?_

Crowley holds up the mobile in front of them and they appear on the screen. Aziraphale waves. “All right, I’ll do on three. One… two…”

There’s a button to click. Aziraphale isn’t paying much attention – he’s too focused on the way Crowley presses into his side, their shoulders together, their heads just touching as Crowley leans into frame. His long hair falls against Aziraphale’s ear, brushing his neck, and Aziraphale can’t help but look over at him. They are so very close, and Crowley is ignoring him in favor of the mobile camera, which means Aziraphale gets to see him near and unguarded. He breathes in Crowley’s scent, smoke and sandalwood and that strange fruit that isn’t quite apple and isn’t quite pear.

“Angel. You’ve got to look. Come on, I’ll keep taking them, look up here, okay?”

Aziraphale does, and eventually they manage to wrangle one where they’re both looking, both smiling, heads together, a good span of the jumpers visible at the bottom of the frame.

“There, pick one,” Crowley says, handing him the phone.

Aziraphale takes it and goes through the photographs, getting the hang of the swiping motion needed to navigate between them. Privately, he thinks that the first might be his favorite. In it, Crowley is looking at the camera, but Aziraphale is looking at Crowley, and the expression on his face is absolutely raw, just bursting with love. His eyes are focused on Crowley’s cheek, so close to his own lips. He radiates adoration. The next photograph has Crowley looking at Aziraphale instead, checking to make sure he’s following directions, and while his expression is not as absolutely destroyed, it’s nice in its own right, fond with an amused grin. But Aziraphale keeps going through the next several candidates until he selects the final one, where they got it right. He hands the phone back to Crowley but hesitates. “Don’t throw away the other ones.”

“Yeah, all right.” He takes it back and surveys the selection. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I started the whole thing just because of that jumper.”

“What whole thing?”

“The whole ‘ugly jumper’ _thing_. Didn’t really take off ’til the fifties.”

Aziraphale laughs. “You know, I ought to have figured that out on my own.”

“But seriously, you can’t show Anathema. I _will_ get revenge if you do.”

“Oh, really? Pray tell, how might you do that?”

“I’ll tell her you said _lend_. She _lent_ us the book. That’s revisionist history, that is.”

“Are you still insisting _she_ hit _you_ with her bike?”

“’S not the point.” Crowley busies himself with his phone. “’Sides, she _did_ ,” he mutters.

He leans on Crowley’s shoulder as Crowley prepares the photograph for whatever he’s doing with it. It occurs to Aziraphale that, save the Dowling estate memories, this is the first memory he’s referenced this December from after the Blitz. The first memory from after he’d realized that obvious fact of himself, that love for Crowley shining so brightly and so hard to hide. He still can’t believe it took him that long to figure it out. How silly Crowley would think him, were he to know that the church was his turning point. Crowley, of course, would have seen Aziraphale’s love all along; would have known it as clearly as anyone looking at that first photograph; would have assumed Aziraphale knew the obvious truth of his own soul. Maybe one day, Aziraphale will tell him how long it really took – all the way until the 1940s! How patient Crowley was with him.

For now, though, he chooses a different topic from the past. “You know, I saw you, in that department store. In 1939.”

Crowley’s eyes widen. “What were you doing _there?”_

“I’d heard rumors about a snake.” He glances over, taking on a tone of disapproval. “You weren’t exactly subtle, you know.”

“Ah, c’mon, I didn’t let ’em actually _catch_ me. It was a long assignment. I just wanted to go home and sleep. Found a good spot, had the run of the store for a month’s worth of nights, humans get a fun story to tell their friends. Everybody wins.”

“Especially Robert May,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley looks caught out.

“Um,” he says.

Aziraphale smiles. “I spoke to him later, you know. Just after I went with you, actually, in 1946. He told me about a person who comforted him just after his wife’s death. Someone who encouraged him to push forward with the story. Someone who wore sunglasses indoors and was _very_ good with his four-year-old daughter.”

“Sounds like an interesting story,” Crowley says with forced lightness.

“We discussed the poem at its core – how he had experience with bullies, and drew on that experience in his writing. The feeling of not being accepted, of being different.”

Crowley sighs. “He did talk about that. He had… a good heart. He liked the idea of a character kids could relate to.”

“He also told me there was an interest in a spoken-word record of his poem, but the Montgomery Ward company was holding onto the rights for dear life – out of spite, really, they weren’t planning to develop anything with it, just didn’t want the money to be made elsewhere.”

“Typical.”

“So I had a bit of a chat with Sewell Avery.”

Crowley’s face does that thing, that awe-filled thing that Aziraphale was hoping for in telling this story. “You’re joking.”

It felt like a temptation wrapped up with a blessing, getting the head of Montgomery Ward to give away the rights: _You don’t really need them. Just one more thing on your plate, nice to have it over and done with, yes? This probably won’t even be a success. And if it is, people will be grateful for what you did. You’ll know you’ve done a good thing. Doesn’t he deserve it, after everything?_ And then just a few course corrections, a discussion with producers about supporting a certain song, a couple nudges on a film project, and a blanket blessing over the whole thing to ensure it caught on with the public.

“Did you, ah… did you _see_ what you did?” Crowley asks. “Wasn’t that song a bestseller? You know there’s a film, right?”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Aziraphale says in a vast understatement.

“…I think you overdid it on the blessing.”

“No such thing.” Aziraphale smiles and places a hand over Crowley’s for a brief moment, squeezing once before letting go. Then he stands. “Come out with me for a proper supper? Man cannot live on madeleines alone.”

Crowley stands, too, with a truly outrageous cracking of all his joints. Aziraphale remembers that he never asked about Crowley’s dreams. He makes a mental note of it for later. “Yeah, yeah, so they say. Wonder what I’ve been living on all this time, then.”

“Sleep,” says Aziraphale, “and obstinacy.”

“Sounds about right.” Crowley quirks a grin at him. “Shall we?”

They head down the stairs.

When Aziraphale returns tonight, he will materialize a shelf in his bedroom and slowly start to unpack the trunks from under his bed, one precious item at a time, setting them carefully on display. There will be crystals shining in the light; wooden trinkets polished to gleaming; scraps of paper with scribbles and tickets and receipts and letters from an ancient typewriter. There will be a truly ridiculous jumper with its own dedicated hook.

It’s a museum of history, really, some of it his alone, but most of it theirs together. A museum of love, unavoidably, because that’s what drove him to keep it all, over the millennia, not always knowing why but knowing he couldn’t bear to part with evidence of Crowley even when it could be (literally) damning. The trunks themselves are heavily warded – set to destroy their contents if a nosy archangel should force them open – and he will vanish them with gusto, needing no more of their shrouding darkness. It served them, at the time. But there’s no point in remaining there now, poised any moment for destruction. No reason not to bring it all out into the light.

(A certain journal, he will leave in a box of its own; ready for when its time comes, knowing it hasn’t quite yet.)

The next time Crowley comes upstairs, he will see it. Aziraphale will talk him through some of the memories, see which ones they share. See where Crowley can offer a new perspective.

But that can wait. For now, Aziraphale follows Crowley to the Bentley and then into the restaurant, sitting next to him at the table. He orders something to eat; Crowley orders something to _not_ eat, mostly, that Aziraphale will get to try, and all the while Crowley will watch him like he loves him, and Aziraphale will love him in return.

They’re still wearing the jumpers. Aziraphale doesn’t say anything about it, and neither does Crowley. But the waitress gives them a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s _twice_ now that I’ve decided on the plot of a flashback (in this case the ‘getting Sewell Avery to sell the rights’ thing) and only _then_ come across an article I hadn’t seen before that described it as a ‘miracle.’ Starting to think Crowley and Aziraphale really were mucking about with holiday history…
> 
> You can read the original Rudolph manuscript [here](https://www.npr.org/2013/12/25/256579598/writing-rudolph-the-original-red-nosed-manuscript#con256879513)! It's a scan of the original handwriting with some really cute illustrations. It’s worth it – the plot’s totally different and it’s in the same meter as A Visit From St. Nicholas/’Twas the Night Before Christmas!
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘nativity’: Crowley has a long discussion with his plants re: evidence for and against Aziraphale loving him. (The plants do not provide satisfactory answers.) Aziraphale makes an addition to the nativity ornament for the sake of historical accuracy. In the past, in Bethlehem, an angel and a demon find a moment of peace, and shepherds watch over their flocks by night.


	13. Nativity

Crowley may not have many friends to talk to, nor does he want them, but he has never lacked for a captive audience.

Right now his audience is trembling, likely unsure what to make of the strange turn his daily shouting ritual has taken. He still holds the mister in one hand, but in the other is a black marker. In front of the window there stands a whiteboard – a massive thing on wheels that definitely didn’t exist this morning. The whiteboard is covered in a mess of scribbles and arrows.

Crowley finishes his current line with a flourish and caps the marker dramatically. “Right then. Let’s look at the evidence, shall we?”

The plants watch, and tremble, and are confused.

Well, Crowley doesn’t care what the plants think. They don’t get a vote. What do they know about love, anyway? Bunch of useless greenery. Never been out in the real world. No idea what real pain is like.

But Crowley has no one else he can talk to about this, so here he is with his miserable excuse for a conversational partner, playing _he loves me, he loves me not*_ like a bloody schoolgirl.

* _Which, on second thought, would actually be A-plus psychological torture for any plant witnesses. Too bad it’s metaphorical; none of the flowering plants are doing badly enough to be worth pulling their petals, although he’ll never tell them so._

“What are the chances,” he asks the room at large, “that the angel actually feels the same way as me?

There are multiple columns on the board. The two largest are titled simply **In Favor** and **Opposed**. He taps the capped marker against the start of the **In Favor** column, causing the plants to flinch.

“All the touching. What the Hell is that about?”

Crowley begins to pace.

“’S not _normal_ , right? ’S more than regular friends. He’s always got his hands in my hair, which, mmm, I am _not_ complaining. But _why?_ And then the wings… you know he actually _groomed_ them for me? But I can see him thinking that’s just a normal friend favor, because he is definitely. That. _Oblivious._ ” Crowley whirls on a particularly lush fern. “But the forehead kiss! Did I tell you about that? He kissed my forehead. Who does that? Oh, and not to mention, at the time I was _in his bed._ ”

And that’s the core of it: the reason this crisis has escalated into an emergency meeting. He spent a night _in Aziraphale’s bed_. Granted, Aziraphale wasn’t in it to start with, but when Crowley woke up Aziraphale had joined him… “And yeah, he was sitting up, but still, he was _in bed_. With me. But… not like that. And I was a snake, which? I don’t know if that makes it better or worse?” Crowley drops the mister and the marker with a satisfying clatter to yank at his hair in frustration. “And all the _teasing_ , he _must_ be doing it on purpose, always getting me up close and then _looking_ at me that _way_ , you’ve seen him. Been doing it for millennia. And then he’s flashing skin like some harlot*, but he has to act all innocent about it, no idea what he’s doing! Agh.” He lifts a threatening finger at a ficus and adds, “Candy canes!”

* _Rolling up his sleeves, loosening his bowtie, showing a scandalous extra inch of throat. Practically nude, really._

He goes back to the whiteboard and consults the list. Next up is one word (‘ **compliments** ’) surrounded by lines leading to others. “He’s always saying these ridiculous things, too. He said my wings were _lovely_ – think he likes that word a lot, actually, m’ voice, m’ eyes, all _lovely_. Calls me _clever._ ” (And _brave_ , one time, not too mention all the _kind_ , but the plants don’t need to know that.) “But then…” He taps something in the **Opposed** column. “He’s nice to _everyone_ *. Very free with the compliments, he is, very – what’s the word, the one that’s like, gushy. He… he loves everyone.”

* _Customers don’t count as ‘everyone’; if they wanted to be considered people, they shouldn’t have ventured into the shop and dared have designs upon the books, now should they?_

It’s true. He used to blame it on Aziraphale being an angel, angels _have_ to love, but further experience with Gabriel has made him realize it’s a trait all Aziraphale’s own. Aziraphale _loves_. Every single human, even the ones he met to tempt on Crowley’s behalf, even the ones acting out of anger and desperation. Even the ones he doesn’t like, he loves. He sees into their souls and _knows_ them, and once he knows them, he can’t help it. Maybe that’s why he saw something worth saving in a demon, all those years ago on Eden’s wall. “Maybe I’m just another one of them,” he says quietly. “He likes taking care of broken things. He’s good at it. He’s _kind._ ” And isn’t that strange, that Crowley would fall in love with such kindness, when he abhors getting caught being kind himself? But then, maybe it makes sense that way. All the things Crowley isn’t allowed to be, all the things he wasn’t allowed to want there in Hell. Softness and warmth and empathy, someone looking at him with care. “So if he loves me… maybe it’s just that Aziraphale kind of love. He’s like that with everything.”

Crowley glances up and pulls from the **In Favor** column again. The next item (‘ **considerate???** ’) contains a list of examples. “So maybe some of this… it’s just who he _is_. The way he’s, y’know, so _thoughtful_ for me…” And these are examples he won’t stoop to giving the plants – they can’t be allowed to hear of his weaknesses – but Aziraphale _is_ considerate in so many ways. Of his eyes, both the light sensitivity and the desire to hide them for deeper reasons. Of his vulnerability to the cold. Of his dependency on sleep; of his desire to take a few bites of food and not be forced into more; of how bad he is at emotional conversations. Aziraphale is kind through it all. And isn’t that going above and beyond? Even with who he is as a person, the amount of care and time he’s put into learning Crowley’s preferences and tells – doesn’t that mean something?

He sighs, accidentally making eye contact* with the bamboo, which means he has to stop for a moment and give it the requisite leer.

* _Well, eyes on his part. Not so much the bamboo. But one of the leaves is definitely giving him a funny look._

“Everyone _thinks_ we’re a couple! He held my hand on a bus. Would it be that bad if we just…”

He can’t show tears. Not in front of the plants.

“He’s been so good about the miracles. Lake was forced upon him, but absolutely _his_ idea to skate on it. He put on the bloody jumper, but then _that_ was just to be a bastard, so that probably doesn’t count.”

They’ve reached the bottom of the column, where there are quotes. _“We’ve never not been friends.” “I wanted to stay. I can now.”_ _“I missed you.”_ “He said he missed me,” Crowley tells the herb garden, “and I think he meant it. Wild, huh? Never thought we’d get there. And he’s being so good about all that shite from our past…”

There are quotes at the bottom of the **Opposed** column, and Crowley surveys them for a long moment. Then he flicks his hand to wipe some of them away: _“you go too fast,” “fraternizing,” “we’re not friends.”_ “That’s all over with,” he says decisively. “That doesn’t count. Heaven’s fault, that, and he’s apologizing – which is just unnecessary – and c’mon, we always knew he didn’t _mean_ them, not really. Even if I’d love to know what _too fast_ actually bloody meant. But these?”

He jabs a finger at the two remaining quotes. One of them from a conversation on their park bench, earlier this summer; he came home immediately after and jotted it down word for word before sleeping for nine days straight. _“I hope you know how much you mean to me. I know it’s not always what you want to hear, but I do hope that in time you’ll allow me to tell you. I don’t know where I’d be without you. And I hope you know, my dear, that I care about you very much.”_ The _“I know it’s not always what you want to hear”_ part is underlined twice.

“‘Not what I want to hear.’ He probably feels _guilty_ about it, caring for me but not _loving_ me, right? Is that what that means? But it’s so…” He scowls and digs his nails into the meat of his hands. “’S so nice of him, right? Who wouldn’t like someone saying all that? I’m so _lucky_ , I know I am, should mean the world to me that he cares about me, and it _does_ , I just…” There’s no steam in him anymore; the sadness is settling back into his bones. “’m just greedy. And I know it.” _And I still can’t stop._

His eyes trail down to the last quote on the list: _“There’s nothing I have to say that you don’t already know.”_

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Crowley laughs, half-strangled, slightly bitter. “He _knows_ what I want to hear. Bloody obvious. And here he is trying to let me down gently. Look… if he hasn’t figured it out _already_ … ’m not a subtle person, ’specially when it comes to him. So if he doesn’t know, it’s because he it hasn’t even _occurred_ to him that we might – that I might – to think of me that way. And if he _does_ know, he can’t possibly feel the same way, because otherwise…” His voice is small and he knows it. He’s ruining his reputation with the plants. “He would have said something by now. Nothing else in the way. Nothing else but he doesn’t want me. And who would? _Why_ would he? I’ve got nothing on an angel like him. I know what I am. ’m a demon. I ruin things. Too sharp for a soft thing like him. I’d just blot out all his light.” Crowley blinks once, twice, blurring the water in his eyes so it will not fall. He glances back up – looks around – comes back to himself abruptly, sees how the plants have stopped trembling and are leaning in to listen, intent.

Snarling, he rounds on the rhododendrons. “And I’ll ruin _you_ if any of you mention this ever again.”

He snaps angrily, and the whiteboard disappears behind him. He leaves the mister on the ground. They don’t deserve any more water.

When he returns to his bed and spreads out on it, he can’t help a small smile as the memory of his night at Aziraphale’s returns. Of going to sleep as a liquid thing, Aziraphale’s kiss on his forehead, and then waking, coiled around a smiling angel, everything in him loose and content. That happened. No matter what else may be true, that happened, and there’s nothing to suggest Aziraphale would be opposed to it happening again.

Crowley just needs to play his other cards close to his chest – to keep the truth wrapped up where it cannot intrude upon their peace. Where it won’t scare Aziraphale away. One day, Crowley will learn how to _make_ this be enough. Until then, he’ll fake it with all the aplomb of a professional tempting deceiver. (So what if his temptations have always been about truth, about stripping away artifice down to the bare unvarnished core of a person? About giving them options, showing them what’s real so they can decide based on fact? He knows his options here, and being a bad liar isn’t one of them. He supposes he certainly has enough experience lying to Hell.)

He can almost feel the phantom touch of Aziraphale’s hand in his hair, on his scales. _That_ was real. And across the room, a windowsill is filling with mementos of their winter together. He stands and walks over to it, pulls back the blackout curtains so the snowglobe is shot through with light. Last night he stared at the jumper for a long time, pretending there was even a remote possibility of his throwing it away, before folding it up and placing it on the windowsill with the others.

There are pictures on his phone of Aziraphale by his side – Aziraphale requested _holiday photos_ , for Someone’s sake, like a proper family Christmas card, and although that probably wasn’t the way Aziraphale saw it, Crowley is pleased all the same. He would wear a thousand ugly Christmas jumpers to be allowed that liberty, pressed beside Aziraphale at the head of his bed, tilting together to fit them both into frame. The last thing he did before passing out last night was to take his phone, still open to the photo Aziraphale had chosen for the final product, and set it as his wallpaper. He kept his normal lockscreen, worried Aziraphale might see; only after he swiped it open (which he would bet money Aziraphale wouldn’t even think to do, never mind the passcode, which didn’t matter itself because Aziraphale knew all his go-to numbers) would the image appear of the two of them, matching and smiling.

He runs his hand across the soft fabric (did Aziraphale makes this one even softer than the first?) and carries on touching each of the other miracles until he reaches the wooden nativity ornament, which he picks up and examines closely.

The angel is Gabriel, probably, to the extent there was an angel involved in the actual room; Crowley didn’t see him there and doesn’t care, suspecting Gabriel didn’t care either and went off with better things to do. Instead Crowley’s attention is caught by the tiny shepherd figure standing just outside with a tall staff, surrounded by three tiny wooden sheep.

It’s been two thousand years and yet Crowley can still easily call to mind a crystal-clear image of Aziraphale standing thus, in the middle of a field, staring at the town in the distance when Crowley found him.

_“Big day,”_ Crowley said as he slithered up. The sheep startled, but Aziraphale raised his staff and they were soothed with an ethereal calm.

_“Yes, quite.”_ Aziraphale looked distracted, his face lined with worry. Immediately Crowley wanted to smooth that worry away.

_“Everything all right?”_ he asked.

_“Of course.”_

Crowley snorted, which was an interesting action when translated through the body of a snake. _“No, it’s not. C’mon, tell me. What are you meant to do?”_

Aziraphale glanced up at the sky. It was nearing dusk. _“It’s… I don’t want to give away Heaven’s plans…”_

Crowley rolled his eyes – also interesting on a snake, but he’d never let supposed bodily limitations get in his way before. _“Trust me, we all got the briefing down in Hell. God’s Son, Savior, gonna be a big deal. Mum out there on a donkey. Kings traveling our way. Shepherds paying their respects – ’course, didn’t know you’d be one of them, but still. Got a good grasp on the situation. So what’s your part in it?”_

_“I’m to arrange the guiding star.”_

This was news to Crowley, although he tried not to show it. The last thing he wanted was for Aziraphale to think he was leaking Heavenly intel to a spy. Maybe one day he’d get it through Aziraphale’s head that he wasn’t going to run off betraying his secrets, but for now he had to be careful lest the angel clam up entirely. _“Right, yeah, guiding star. What’s the problem?”_

Aziraphale had dropped his staff to wring his hands. The skin on them turned white under the pressure, and Crowley wanted to take them in his own, hold them until they were calm and Aziraphale could hurt himself no longer. Good thing Crowley didn’t _have_ hands at the moment. _“I… I don’t know_ how _,”_ Aziraphale admitted.

Crowley nodded his large head in encouragement. The closest sheep gave him a distrusting look and moved away.

_“And if I can’t get it into place, you know, the Wise Men won’t make it here, and… well, I’m not actually certain_ what _will happen, but I’m sure the whole thing will go to bits.”_ Now he was worrying his lip between his teeth – another thing Crowley would have happily soothed for him.

_“I could do it.”_ Crowley tried to shrug and found that even _he_ couldn’t manage it without any shoulders to speak of. Frustrated, he flowed back into his more human form. Now that he was taller than Aziraphale, the angel looked even smaller and more uncertain.

Aziraphale glanced up at him. If he was startled by the transformation, he didn’t show it. _“Could you?”_

_“Easy. I’ll show you?”_

Aziraphale hesitated for a long moment; Crowley’s nerves swelled as he hoped that at the least he wouldn’t be sent away. Then Aziraphale nodded. _“All right. Show me.”_

Crowley’s face split in a grin – he couldn’t help it. There was nothing of guile in it, only joy. It had been so long since he had an excuse to work with stars.

_“I just don’t understand how it’s meant to guide them here,”_ Aziraphale said. _“I know there’s that other bright star that takes you up to the top of the world, but I just can’t seem to get the angle right on this. Not to mention, to actually_ move _a star – they’re so big, so much depends on them! There were all these fiddly little planets trailing after. I felt I was about to break something, so I stopped. I’m not sure I’ve_ ever _had dispensation to use this much power before. It seems like it would be so much easier to miracle the sight of the star straight into the people’s minds… but Heaven was very specific on this one. The actual star has to be involved. I’m sure they have good reason...”_

Privately, Crowley thought that he was not at all sure they had good reason – it often seemed Heaven didn’t have any reason at all. But he said nothing of it. _“Yeah, you can’t go moving stars about all willy-nilly. Gravity’s delicate. You’ve got to…”_

He waved a hand and a bright light appeared above them, drifting over into place, shine swelling until it glittered brighter than the sun. It begin to rise up into the sky. Aziraphale gasped. _“Oh, look! It’s so…”_

Crowley did a little bow. Aziraphale was entranced enough to ignore it. _“’S not actually_ here _. Would fry the Earth in half a heartbeat. It’s more like… a window. Real star’s up there,”_ – he pointed – _“but you can see it here now, too. Not an illusion. A window. Heaven should be fine with that.”_

The star took its place at the upper limit of sight. Later, he thought, he might bring it down closer to the manger, when no one need follow it from cities away. It might look good there, lighting the scene from above.

Aziraphale beamed, and he was dazzling. In his own way brighter than any star.

_“You know, that is ever so clever,”_ Aziraphale said, and Crowley’s heart clenched. How could Aziraphale be so open one moment, flowing over with praise, and the next insist that even talking to each other was fundamentally Wrong? He knew he should stop hoping, stop receiving that little thrill from Aziraphale’s admiration in anticipation of what was to come, but he couldn’t. He lived for these moments, and he would take what he could get.

_“Now we wait, I suppose,”_ said Crowley.

All the worry was gone from Aziraphale’s face. Goal accomplished. He even wore a small smile as he came over to stand beside Crowley, both of them watching the stream of people entering town from the road beyond, no sign yet of two (or three) in particular. _“Now we wait.”_

Later, a series of cries split the night. First of a woman in pain (and wasn’t that Crowley’s fault? Pain in childbirth, a curse passed down from Eve – he’d been forced to watch as she labored with her children, hating himself, _you did this to her, she thought you were her friend_ , and then railing at God for all of it, for what was clearly always part of Her Plan). Then of an infant child.

And the infant didn’t _sound_ special. There was nothing particularly holy about the cry, no trumpets in the air, just something small and human. The briefing in Hell had been clear on that point, that he (He) _was_ human, fully, and at the same time fully divine; when Crowley asked what that _meant_ , the demon in charge had dropped all their papers and scrambled to pick them up and could think of no answer. Which was fine. Crowley was accustomed to no answers. It had a symmetry to it that felt right – a human to save the humans, when humans were something so strange and special, something all their own that neither Heaven nor Hell could seem to understand or replicate.

Still, Crowley found himself slithering forward through the grass after some magnetic pull, leaving Aziraphale behind him. He’d become a very small snake, and he made his way below the manger without notice or fuss. He wound his way up the back of it and poked his head over the corner. Such a small creature, the babe that lay there. So unassuming. So strange that he should be the focus of kings and nations, of angels and demons alike.

Crowley didn’t want him to come to harm. He also knew that he would.

There was an aura of something profound in the room, something peaceful. Something almost holy. And it _hurt_ Crowley, just a little, to be there among it, but he felt drawn to it in equal measure. It seemed a match for the place in his soul where God’s love had been ripped away from him so long ago. He wanted to stay there in the child’s presence, to bask in it, to feel it fill him and pretend that that part of him was something that could ever be restored.

He had moved forward without knowing, finding himself face-to-face with the infant, just a breath away. He heard a cry from behind him as the humans noticed, and one stepped forward to stop him. He was vaguely aware of the woman shushing them, telling them it was all right. He didn’t wonder how she knew. He was too enraptured by the tiny fist reaching towards him, by the even tinier finger that came to rest, at last, on his nose.

It burned.

It felt like a brand on his soul.

It felt like a benediction.

An eternity passed in that single moment, neither of them moving. Then Crowley blinked slowly, once, twice (with eyelids he manifested for the purpose), and the fingertip was removed. They shared a brief gaze of understanding.

Crowley slithered down from the manger. He headed back out into the fields to join Aziraphale, who had been watching and was now giving him a curious look.

_“Hell has been communicating with Herod the King,”_ Crowley told him. _“He’s coming for the boy. Someone has to warn the father.”_

There was a sharp intake of breath. _“I – Heaven said nothing about –”_

_“Heaven doesn’t_ know _. It’s all Hell’s doing, they think they’re getting away with something slick. They need to be –_ thwarted _.”_

_“Only Gabriel has spoken to the parents before,”_ Aziraphale demurred. _“He’s made a habit of appearing to them in dreams. If I can just get an audience with him – submit the right paperwork –”_

_“It’s now, angel. Matter of weeks. Could be days.”_

Aziraphale hesitated. Conflict writ clear on his face. _“Something must be done…”_

_“I think they could use an angel who’s good with dreams,”_ said Crowley, who had witnessed Aziraphale’s preferred method of blessing time and time again, had seen him touch the foreheads of grieving parents and soldiers at war and tell them _It’s all right, sleep now, dream of whatever you like best._

_“You know,”_ replied Aziraphale, resolve coming over him, _“I think they might.”_

Now, Crowley holds the nativity ornament in his hand and thinks about the way the infant Jesus looked at him, in all his snakey glory, as if he weren’t some base and evil thing, as if he had worth. It was the same way the man Jesus had looked at him nearly thirty years later, on a mountaintop, with a deep understanding beneath the calm and certain knowledge that he would not be tempted. The man had listened patiently as Crowley spoke, had looked out obligingly over the wonders of the world, had truly paid him attention and _seen_ him even as he rejected everything he had to offer.

Until then, the only person who had _seen_ Crowley was Aziraphale, who looked at him that way too. As if he were worthy of care. As if he mattered in his own right.

Crowley decided, then and there, to switch to a truer name, to believe it might be possible to live up to that reflection of himself he saw in their eyes, or at least to try.

He’s still trying to this day.

When he leaves for the bookshop, he takes the ornament with him, still turning over in his mind a thought about that selfless, all-encompassing love Aziraphale has perfected – what he once thought of as angelic love, only to realize that the only angel who truly feels it is _his_ angel. (Not his, never his, not really, but still his all the same.) He enters and Aziraphale looks up at him with such warmth that Crowley doesn’t know how he’ll ever be cold again.

“Crowley!” he says with unbridled delight.

“Hi, angel,” Crowley answers, voice still a little hoarse from all the plant-shouting. He’s glad he worked it out of his system. He needs to agonize, sometimes, to worry and to question, if only so that he can return here and fully enjoy how Aziraphale folds him into his orbit and quiets the frantic part of his soul. “Sorry again for going all snake on you out of nowhere.” He flings himself onto the sofa and cracks a grin; he already knows Aziraphale has forgiven him.

“Oh, no, it’s quite all right.” Aziraphale is giving him the look of fond reprimand he uses when Crowley says anything too harsh about himself. “I mean it. You’re welcome here anytime, in any form. I want you to be comfortable.” His voice goes soft and he comes to sit beside Crowley, their thighs pressed together. Crowley abruptly loses any sense of what he was going to say.

“Ah…” He flails about in his mind and comes up with something resembling a sentence. “Yeah, still, I’ll try to stay more human-shaped next time.”

_Next time?_ Oh, no. He actually just said that. He can’t take it back now, can only stare at Aziraphale, frozen in panic. Should he say anything to backpedal? Would that make it even more awkward than silence? Doesn’t matter – he has no more words in him anyway.

But Aziraphale rescues him.

“Really, I don’t mind,” he says, and _squeezes Crowley’s knee._ “If you sleep better as a snake, it’s a privilege to have you. Do let me know if I ought to acquire alternatively-shaped bed linens, though. At times you seemed rather vexed by the duvet.”

And then he stands and walks to his desk as if he didn’t just implode Crowley’s entire _life_.

Is this something Crowley can do now? Stay over? How is he supposed to form the request? How often can he ask until it’s too much, until it’s too obvious how little he ever wants to leave Aziraphale’s side?

Aziraphale returns with a glass of wine, which helps to calm Crowley’s racing heart. It also grants that languid cast to his thoughts which helps the words smooth themselves out in his mind.

They sit in companionable quiet for a few minutes before Crowley remembers the ornament and pulls it out.

“Sometimes I feel like we’re the only ones who remember he was born in June,” he says.

Aziraphale laughs. “The humans know. They just like to forget.”

“All they wanted to do was glom onto Saturnalia.”

At this Aziraphale frowned slightly, growing wistful. “I did _like_ Saturnalia.”

“I know.” Brilliant hedonistic bastard. And there’s a thought – maybe one of Crowley’s intentional miracles should be from then. He’ll have to be careful not to give himself away, recreating a holiday of such debauchery, but if it might make Aziraphale smile…

“Speaking of historical accuracy,” says Aziraphale, “may I?” He gestures for the nativity, which Crowley hands over automatically.

There’s a concentration of power as Aziraphale holds the ornament up, peering at it very closely with intense focus. Crowley loves that look on him, always has – it’s the way he peers at books he’s restoring, the way he analyzes a costume for a role before he steps out on assignment. Crowley would give anything to be the center of that focus.

Aziraphale hands the nativity back. Crowley takes it and examines it and…

There is a miniscule wooden snake in the center, wrapped around the manger, gazing down at the infant Christ.

“Never heard that part of the nativity story before,” Crowley croaks, determined not to cry.

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “It’s one of my favorites.”

Crowley sprawls back on the sofa and Aziraphale shifts to accommodate, maintaining the commingling of their knees. “What do you say we check on our star?”

Before Aziraphale can ask what he means, Crowley sweeps his palm upwards and a spark follows, floating to the center of the room and growing wider. It revolves there, just brushing the ceiling, and Crowley smiles to see it. He always forgets how much he likes doing this. Maybe he should try it at his flat, illuminate the place with starlight – but it does take energy to sustain, so he usually reserves it for special occasions. He’s hoping this will count for today’s miracle and his subconscious won’t whip up something ridiculous as a substitute.

Aziraphale is watching the star, through its metaphysical window, with awe. He turns to Crowley and the expression doesn’t change, like he’s still looking at something marvelous.

“My goodness, it’s still just as beautiful. Is that the same one?”

Crowley nods.

“Do I know it?”

“Ah…” Crowley should have been prepared for this question. When he made the initial decision (an impulse, really), some part of him must have been hoping Aziraphale would ask. Why do it, otherwise? But the other part of him, the nervous part, was always stronger. “Beta Aurigae,” he hedges, because it’s true enough.

“One of those constellations you’re fond of?”

“It’s, ah, well, it’s the Charioteer, most recently. Has been for a long time.” And then he looks away, at the floor, because he can’t _not_ say this part but he also can’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes while he does it. “The old days, though. Mesopotamia. It was part of one called the Shepherd.”

Aziraphale does a little _gasp_ that is way cuter than it has any right to be. Crowley risks a glance back. “Oh,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley shrugs. “What c’n I say. I was inspired.”

He fights a smile as Aziraphale wraps a hand around his elbow and returns his gaze to the star. “Well, my dear. I’m certainly not opposed to your choice.”

They watch the star for maybe an hour before Crowley lets it fade. “Sorry, lot to keep up,” he says. “Bring it back later.”

“That’s all right.” Aziraphale smiles down at him – by now Crowley has gradually twisted so that his head lies on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He pauses for a long moment, just enough for Crowley to pay extra attention, then says: “…Are you tired, then?”

Crowley’s heart does a complicated jump in his chest that’s almost painful. He barely strangles the overwhelmed laugh that wants to burst out of him, instead managing, “Nnng, yeah. I guess I am.”

“We should get you to bed, then,” Aziraphale murmurs, which is just _ridiculous_.

It’s very late, which is only one of the reasons Crowley doesn’t protest when Aziraphale takes his arm and brings him up the stairs. The bedroom is just as he remembers it. He snaps himself into decent silk pyjamas – no need to scandalize Aziraphale when he’s offering this wonderful thing – and slides back under the covers, feeling a little like he never left. Feeling a lot like he never wants to leave again.

Aziraphale sits on the edge of the bed as he gets settled and then strokes a hand over his hair, which Crowley leans into, self-control taxed enough just by trying not to make a noise. Aziraphale’s eyes are a beautiful stained glass color in the near-darkness.

He hesitates there, to the point where Crowley almost breaks down and says _stay with me,_ but luckily speaks before Crowley can ruin anything. “Good night, my dear. I wish you all your favorite dreams.”

And he kisses Crowley’s forehead. Crowley _does_ make a noise, then, but it’s quiet enough to preserve at least a little of his dignity, and he covers it by saying weakly, “’Night.”

Aziraphale smiles softly and leaves the room, casting one last glance behind him.

And then he’s gone, but Crowley can still hear him, puttering around the bookshop and clinking mugs, humming some classical tune, soft footsteps to lull him to sleep. That’s what he needs most – to know his angel is safe, to know his angel is _there_. Crowley could call to him at any moment and he would come, he knows it. And so he doesn’t need to. He just lies back and closes his eyes. He is sated on love and starlight, and they follow him past the threshold of sleep, a feeling that lingers in his dreams and stays with him there, all through the silent night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter after next is the ‘mistletoe’ prompt (!). Y’all excited? ;) We’re not doing love confessions yet, but if you think I’m going to let it go by without a kiss, you don’t know me very well at all…
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘fairy lights’: Harriet Dowling calls with a big plan for the holidays, causing Aziraphale and Crowley to discuss certain human misapprehensions… and decide whether correcting the impression that they’re married is all that big a deal, really, or if they may as well just go with it, under the circumstances. Aziraphale supplements his limited space knowledge with books in order to architect a surprise. Meanwhile, in the past, Crowley is asked to accompany a young Warlock on a field trip to Orlando, Florida; Aziraphale sneaks over to check on him and they appreciate Disney’s Osborne Family Spectacle of Dancing Lights.


	14. Fairy Lights

When the telephone rings, Aziraphale very nearly ignores it. Sitting on the edge of his bed, watching a still-human-shaped* Crowley sleep, he can’t imagine a conversation that would be worth leaving for. Everything he needs is here in this room.

* _Vaguely human-shaped, at any rate, despite a series of contortions that would be better-placed on a snake, or perhaps a Slinky or a bendy straw. Sometimes, when Crowley flows in one direction or another like a liquid, Aziraphale thinks he’s about to shift, but he hasn’t yet. He is a very bipedal variety of slithery and boneless._

He’s discovered some delightful facts about this version of sleeping Crowley. He still dreams, for example, which Aziraphale expected; his mumbled words are somehow _less_ clear than when coming out the mouth of a snake, which Aziraphale would have thought impossible. Sleeping Crowley gravitates toward Aziraphale just as much in human form as in snake form (although there is only so much four limbs can do to cling when compared with a serpent’s coils). There’s a stubborn lock of hair that keeps escaping from behind Crowley’s ear, and every time Aziraphale smooths it back into place, Crowley sighs and leans into him further.

Aziraphale is still sitting up, because he’s not sure what Crowley would think of waking up wrapped around him if they were lying in bed properly, even if Aziraphale let Crowley do all the wrapping. It’s also hard enough up here to resist gathering Crowley into his arms and never letting go; if they were on the same level he suspects it might be impossible.

So he hesitates as the phone rings, tempted to linger. But eventually he sighs and goes to answer it, taking one last long look at Crowley in his bed – a sight he’s already growing to adore.

“A.Z. Fell,” he says into the receiver.

“Hi, it’s Harriet Dowling. Do you have a moment?”

Aziraphale sits down, mind finally returning from upstairs to somewhere in the vicinity of his current surroundings. “Ah, Harriet! Lovely to hear from you.”

“I have…” She hesitates. “Well, I suppose a bit of a favor to ask. And I know that’s strange, out of the blue like this, but you did say you wanted to see Warlock over Christmas…”

“We do,” he says firmly. He hopes nothing’s gone wrong with the plan. Crowley’s got his heart set on it, though he’d never admit it, and if it all falls apart now, that broken heart will be Aziraphale’s fault for bringing this up in the first place.

“Oh, good. As it turns out, Thaddeus and I have to go out of town that week. The twentieth through the twenty-sixth.”

Aziraphale winces in sympathy. It’s not unprecedented, but it’s unpleasant. Thaddeus’s job is delicate and difficult, of course, but Aziraphale has always privately wondered what might happen if he said _no_ a little more often. It would be easy to write it off by saying Thaddeus doesn’t _want_ to say no – that he prefers to be out there gladhanding and avoiding his family; certainly he doesn’t strike one as the sort of person with difficulty speaking his mind. But appearances can be deceiving, and Aziraphale knows there’s more going on underneath that bluster. Maybe something he can help with, one of these days, now that he’s officially a freelance angel.

“Normally we’d take Warlock with us,” Harriet continues, “but I swear he hates travel more and more with every trip, and I feel bad putting him through it when there’s… well, another option. Did I mention that he’s made some new friends?”

“In Tadfield, yes,” Aziraphale says faintly, suspecting this is about to spiral a bit beyond control.

“They’ve invited him out for the holidays. And I’ve talked to their parents – it’s so sweet, you know, one of those quaint little English towns where the air smells like a healthy childhood. They have ample accommodation, and I think it would be great for Warlock to get out of the house and spend some time with kids his own age. I just…” She trails off.

“You don’t want to send him there alone,” he surmises.

“ _Yes._ That’s it exactly. And I know it’s a lot to ask, but there’s no one I trust with him more than you and Nanny. And you said you don’t have particular plans. Do you think you might be up for going with him? It sounds like a beautiful town, very picturesque, great place for a getaway. I can pay you.”

“That won’t be necessary, my dear. What, ah, what exactly does Warlock think of this plan?”

“He wants to go. I haven’t told him anything about you two, yet. I didn’t want to put it in his head if you weren’t interested.”

“Well, I’ll need to talk it over with Ashtoreth, of course,” Aziraphale says slowly.

Harriet’s tone brightens. “Oh, yes! Of course. Please, talk to your wife, think it over, let me know? I have all the details here. You really would be doing me _such_ a favor. And…” Her voice goes quieter, warmer. “I know Warlock misses you both. Even if this doesn’t work for you, I’ll find another time to bring him for dinner.”

“Thank you,” he says, and means it. “I’ll ring you as soon as I know.”

A few pleasantries and they end the call; Aziraphale is left staring at the wall, mind turning as he tries to decide what to make of this. Eventually, the only thing that’s clear is that bringing Crowley into the discussion can do nothing but enrich its quality.

He pops in to check, but Crowley is still fast asleep, mouth slightly open, limbs sprawled in an improbable configuration. Aziraphale brushes the hair from Crowley’s face and draws the covers back over him properly.

The new bookshelf is right there, filled with his uncovered souvenirs from the past, and he wonders if Crowley even noticed it on his way to bed last night. Or if he’ll notice it when he awakes. For now, Aziraphale allows himself one last stroke of Crowley’s hair before he heads downstairs to work on today’s miracle.

It’s a fiddly business, mucking about with thousands of tiny lights, darting back and forth between four different astronomy books and a galactic atlas. Aziraphale is standing on a footstool, pulling another string of lights up into place, when Crowley appears on the stairs.

“Ah, hold on a moment, my dear, I’m almost done!” Aziraphale calls, giving one of the lights a stern look until it stops falling down from where he puts it. He climbs down from the footstool and takes one more survey of the room. It is nothing close to perfect, but he suspects it’s the best he can do for now. “All right, will you come down?”

With a close eye on Crowley’s face, Aziraphale snaps his fingers. The bookshop plunges into darkness and the lights flicker to life.

In the yellow-white glow, Crowley is radiant.

He crosses from one side of the room to the other, peering at the lights in turn, before making his way to the center of the rotunda. He steps from side to side, using different viewing angles to put the pieces together in his mind, and finally places his feet in a very deliberate spot and looks back at Aziraphale. “This is Earth,” he says.

Aziraphale nods and goes over to stand beside him. “As near as I could get it. The lights themselves are from the Osborne display, of course, but as for the arrangement, I felt… inspired.”

Crowley is smiling, eyes warm and wide beneath his sleep-mussed hair, and they are surely wandering through the same memory.

The lights are from 2015, when Warlock was seven and someone decided a field trip to Disney World was somehow a good idea. There was a loose social group among American parents who lived in London for posh government jobs; it was these children who were sent off to Florida for two weeks that winter, largely in the hands of nannies and aides, leaving their parents with a bit of peace and quiet. They ranged in age from sullen teenagers to a four-year-old who surely would remember almost none of the excursion. And Crowley had been dragged along.

 _“It’s going to be Hell,”_ she grumbled at Aziraphale as she readied her nominal luggage*. _“It’s going to be a very loud, sticky, freezing and sweltering Hell.”_

* _He watched as she packed, in turn, a series of items designed to confound any snooping parents or baggage inspectors, including: a crowbar, a rubber duck, a fencing helmet, several loose grapes, three copies of a popular erotic bondage novel, and a single hotel mint (unwrapped). He did not ask questions; that was presumably the reason she was doing it in the first place._

Aziraphale made an attempt to cheer her up: _“I hear it’s fun! I’ve always meant to go.”_

 _“I don’t mean the place, I mean the company. All these spoiled rich brats. You know we’re meant to take turns supervising them? Wouldn’t mind just Warlock, but they’re dumping them_ all _on me for six half-days so they can go drink and enjoy the teacups.”_

Aziraphale did not follow the rest of her rant about the rota among the aides and nannies, but he nodded sympathetically at key intervals.

_“And I’ve got to fly bloody transatlantic, ’nd I can’t even shift forms. Does their castle have a dungeon? Maybe I can ditch the brats there and take Warlock somewhere more interesting.”_

_“I don’t think you can trap children in Cinderella Castle, dear,”_ said Aziraphale. (And oh, he really had leaned hard on the _dear_ during those years, hadn’t he? Not more than once or twice a week, and as privately as he could manage, but he can still understand why the staff might have picked up on a thing or two.) _“They don’t have the facilities.”_

 _“I’ll_ make _them the facilities,”_ she muttered, closing the trunk with a snap. She wore a truly miserable countenance as she stormed out of her room. (And he’d forgotten until now that he did used to go into her room, on occasion… only when it felt necessary, which was often, and when weather precluded more obscure meeting places, which was… also often… oh, dear. He’s not sure how he ever thought they were discreet.)

Faced with Crowley’s despair, Aziraphale chose five days to finagle off towards the end of the trip (no one much cared what the gardener did so long as the plants thrived, which they did, miraculously and under severe demonic threat), stepped through the local gate to New York, and endured a plane flight down to Florida.

It was easy to claim that he just wanted to keep things square in their contest – that it was unfair for Warlock to have two full weeks under evil influence alone. That he had only come to even the score. And he _did_ provide Warlock with plenty of angelic influence as a counteraction.

But when Aziraphale arrived in the World Showcase to find Crowley wrangling a group of spoiled terrors, correcting some egregious insults about Morocco with spilled ice cream all down her front that she was too busy to miracle away, and she saw him across the path and _lit up_ …

Well. They both knew why he was really there.

Christmas season at Disney was an absurdly festive affair, which Aziraphale adored. On days when the children were someone else’s responsibility, he traded his Brother Francis getup for flashing jingle bell Mickey ears and took Crowley exploring.

It was worth it in every way. Crowley thrived on the background radiation of stress and chaos from the humans, while there was plenty of joy and awe to sustain Aziraphale. They both performed a stream of little miracles throughout the day: Aziraphale through blessings for overworked parents and kind ride operators; Crowley through minor curses on any entitled guests who were bullying the workers or cutting in line. (There was also a constant level of low-grade Crowley mischief, such as putting drink machines out of order and mixing up empty strollers so no one could find the one they needed, but that was to be expected.)

Crowley took quickly to the rides, going on Rock ’n’ Roller Coaster seven times* in a row while Aziraphale sat outside calmly, eating a Dole Whip. He learned quite enough from Crowley’s descriptions of the wild loops and blasting music and had no need to experience it for himself, thank you. Aziraphale _did_ take a liking to the teacups Crowley had mentioned, and barely noticed when Crowley bowed out of them after the fifth time, looking a little green.

* _Many of the humans who stood in line or thought about standing in line were surprised to find that their interest in the ride had diminished rapidly, leaving them to decide they’d much rather go somewhere else for the next half or hour so. The rest of those humans were pleased to find the line moving almost miraculously swiftly._

But none of it compared to when Crowley discovered Space Mountain.

She returned the first time with a shining smile and said to a waiting Aziraphale, _“You_ have _to see this one.”_ So Aziraphale did. It wasn’t entirely to his taste – the drops felt strange to his corporation’s stomach and the turns whiplash fast – but it was all worth it to watch Crowley’s _face_.

The ride itself was in darkness, surrounded by pinpricks of stars. Aziraphale had to admit it was beautiful, and seemed convincing, although he had never been to space himself (quite outside of his job description) and couldn’t speak on the matter. But Crowley, who had, was enchanted, and when she quirked a brow back at the ride entrance upon their exit, Aziraphale followed without protest and went again.

Crowley watched the stars; Aziraphale watched Crowley.

Their ride photograph was a sight – Aziraphale startled from his gaze by fright at the sudden fall; Crowley baring her teeth in demonic delight – and although Aziraphale didn’t know how to get a copy, he wonders now if Crowley did. (Best not to reflect on the photos of subsequent times, once Aziraphale knew the drop was coming and did not allow it to interrupt his view of Crowley’s enjoyment.)

On their final evening, one of the aides had charge of the children, so Crowley was free to join Aziraphale at the Hollywood park. (Aziraphale had grown fond of a pastry shop in the Streets of America section, on this occasion acquiring a cup of cocoa and a cinnamon roll the size of his entire face.) They found themselves in the midst of a truly astonishing display of Christmas lights.

Every imaginable color was represented in a vast range of configurations, and they _moved_. Flashing and turning in hypnotic patterns. Some formed shapes along the windows – characters, gifts, a sleigh – while others comprised three-dimensional figures like an enormous tree. The rest carpeted the remaining expanses of walls and rooftops, spread out and sparkling like – like stars.

Crowley gaped at the lights in awe while Aziraphale found a shop assistant (‘cast member’) to corner with questions. He returned with the name of the display (‘The Osborne Family Spectacle of Dancing Lights,’ truly a mouthful) and some other relevant details: _“They’ve done it every year for a while, but this is the very last.”_

 _“Shame,”_ said Crowley, looking like she meant it. And then the music changed and the lights started to, well, _dance_.

The sound and sight of it was overwhelming, leaving no way to converse and be heard even if they’d had attention to spare. As it was, Crowley took hold of his elbow (which he didn’t have the heart to stop or the mental fortitude to dislike, focusing instead on not spilling his cocoa) and they watched it together. Finally the song ended.

Crowley released him and brought up her mobile* to take a few pictures, then tapped in a query and read for a while from the Inter Net. “Says we’re supposed to look for a purple cat,” she told him, and when he frowned with confusion she showed him a photograph from the article.

* _Something Aziraphale wasn’t sure the household knew Nanny Ashtoreth_ had _– it rather clashed with the aesthetic, after all, but now there was just the two of them, no need for pretending. (Except pretending not to be in love with each other, which Aziraphale had become aware of in 1941 after doing it for much longer, but then sometimes they would have a day together like this and Aziraphale would wonder if they were even bothering with that pretense anymore.)_

They never did find the purple cat, but they did spot scores of the hidden Mickey silhouettes. Crowley insisted on a photograph of Aziraphale looking unimpressed in front of a group of light-up angels, aligned in the shot so that one of the halos fell over his head.

After a while they sat down on a bench, exhausted. _“So, do you have a favorite?”_ Aziraphale asked.

 _“Not really,”_ Crowley said. Then she glanced around and did one of those practiced shrugs, the ones that said _I mean this more than I’m letting on._ _“Like those, I guess.”_ She gestured up to a long strip across the tops of the buildings.

They were white and plain – proper fairy lights. Not what one might guess for Crowley, but then, Aziraphale had seen her reaction to the depths of faux outer space. They continued up and up until they merged with the stars of the night sky above. _“Must be thousands of them,”_ he mused.

 _“I’ll bet their electric bill’s_ enormous _.”_

They went home the next day, Aziraphale keeping Crowley company through the interminable discomfort and boredom of the long flight, relegated again to the Francis costume. (Warlock was remarkably incurious about the presence of the gardener on his trip – it was no more strange than to have Nanny there, really, for all the time he spent in their company. The real strange thing would have been if his father had attended.) Aziraphale stopped by the bookshop with a suitcase filled with souvenirs – Crowley had taken to buying him pins – and overturned it into one of the trunks under his bed. Closed the trunk. Returned to the Dowlings’. Continued his practice of trying not to be seen with Crowley in the same room.

Now, knowing the pins to be in full display on lanyards upstairs, Aziraphale watches Crowley’s reaction to the carefully placed fairy lights, laid out to match the placements of the stars. “It’s far from exact,” Aziraphale says, nervous. “I got most of it from books, I’ve none of the starting knowledge you have – and the scale of course is questionable – and it’s hard to judge just from seeing it all on paper –”

Crowley quiets him with a smile. “It’s perfect.” And he spends fifteen minutes more circling the room, tweaking the positioning here and there (while pretending he isn’t, though Aziraphale looks on fondly and doesn’t mind in the least) and offering trivia about the various stars, what they’re called, where they came from, which ones are special. (To hear Crowley tell it, they’re _all_ special – “Biggest in the neighborhood.” “This one’s about as close as you can get to a black hole without falling in, still shines like anything though.” “ _Nineteen_ planets around this one, humans haven’t noticed most of them yet.” “If God ever does aliens, She should start them here.”)

When Aziraphale finally goes to sit down, Crowley stops him and drags chairs out into the rotunda, right in the spot where their view of the lights will (loosely) match the view from Earth.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. He has to tell Crowley the news about Warlock. And it’s not _bad_ news! It would be rather nice to go to Tadfield for Christmas, and even if they don’t, they’ve been promised a dinner. It’s just…

Well. If they’re going to be playing at Nanny and Francis again (although Aziraphale lucked into shedding _most_ of his cover when Harriet saw him in person), the roles have changed. In Harriet’s eyes, and Warlock’s when she tells him, they’ll be husband and wife.

But then, apparently those were the roles all along, even when they didn’t know it. And is that really much of a surprise?

“I’ve heard from Harriet,” says Aziraphale finally, and Crowley looks up at him with such _hope_ that the telling becomes easy. “Dinner with Warlock is absolutely a go.”

Crowley breaks out into a wide grin. “That’s brilliant. Angel, you’re _brilliant_.” (Aziraphale’s heart soars.) “When?”

“Ah… that’s the thing. It seems Warlock has somehow made _friends_ in Tadfield.”

“In…” Some realization crosses Crowley’s face as he groans. “A friend. I don’t believe it.”

“Now, it _may_ not be Adam and his friends. It could be a coincidence.”

“Adam…? Oh, Antichrist. Yeah, no, it’s him. Saw them at Anathema’s. They were sending biscuits to their friend in London.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean…” Aziraphale trails off, optimism flagging.

“They were sending them because his mum’s biscuits were terrible.”

That definitely sounds like Harriet. Aziraphale sighs. “I suppose it _is_ too much of a coincidence to be unrelated. How do you suppose they met? We should probably ask Warlock.”

“No, I’d bet we should ask _Adam_ ,” says Crowley darkly.

“We might get the chance sooner than later. The Dowlings are out of town Christmas week –”

“Oh.” Crowley looks unhappy.

“But Warlock doesn’t want to go with them. Warlock wants to spend it in Tadfield, and they’re happy to have him.”

Now there is cautious hope as Crowley says, “So is he? Spending it there?”

“Harriet doesn’t want him to go alone. She wants… chaperones. She wants _us_ , Crowley. Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis. Although she knows my real name now, long story but I won’t need to be in disguise.” Aziraphale supposes it would be possible to concoct a similar story for Crowley’s change in appearance, but Crowley always _liked_ being Nanny Ashtoreth, so for him it probably won't feel like a disguise at all.

“Is that something you’d want to do?” Crowley asks slowly, carefully.

Aziraphale responds with just as much care. “I think I’d like to. It could be fun, and it would be nice to see Anathema and the others for Christmas. Perhaps we could invite Tracy and Mr. Shadwell along. And I’ll admit the idea of spending more time with Warlock is difficult to pass up. But Harriet did promise me we could have dinner with him some other time, should we prefer not to go to Tadfield. And I understand if you’d rather stay home. It might be a bit much, with everyone there, and it’s for six nights at least.”

“I want to,” says Crowley.

Aziraphale starts to smile – can’t help it. “Yes?”

“Yeah.” Crowley’s smiling back. “Let’s do it.”

“Ah, yes, one other thing.” Aziraphale remembers the other matter and it sobers him, snatching the smile from his face. He puts a hand on Crowley’s elbow, then thinks better of it and withdraws. He doesn’t need to push physical intimacy when he’s pushing such an intimate idea. “Harriet… and Warlock, by now, I’m sure… is under the impression… and it really was a mistake, I didn’t give her any reason… and it was the whole _time_ , not just now…”

“Go on, angel,” says Crowley, a gentle prompting, patient. Always so patient.

“She thinks we’re married,” Aziraphale blurts out.

Crowley blinks. And then he _guffaws_ , which is not exactly what Aziraphale was expecting. “ _She_ thinks we’re married?”

He tries not to read into it too much, yet he can’t help but wonder if Crowley really finds the idea so ridiculous. “Yes. Is that…” He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.

Crowley swoops in to rescue him: “ _Anathema_ thinks we’re married.”

Oh! Oh, that’s a relief. Oh… but that’s a complication. “She does?”

“Yeah, that one’s my fault – I mean, just like you, didn’t give her any _reason_ , but she decided. She was really happy about it.”

“Harriet too,” Aziraphale murmurs, and thinks that this is going better than he’d hoped. “It would… be a _shame_ , to break it to them.”

Crowley looks at him closely. This is their ancient dance: Aziraphale hesitates, gives him an opening, floats an idea like he doesn’t know full well the implications, and Crowley picks it up and runs with it. Aziraphale’s trying to do less of that, lately, to speak his mind as far as Crowley is comfortable, but this doesn’t seem a bad place to make use of the habit. “It would…” says Crowley, clearly waiting for a better idea of what Aziraphale means.

“And I don’t see any _reason_ to. What does it change, really? They’ll only be terribly disappointed.”

“What does it change?” Crowley echoes in agreement as he puts it together. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”

“So, do you suppose…”

“We might _not_ tell them.” Crowley is catching on, now, and he doesn’t look upset. Maybe _intrigued._ Maybe even excited (though surely that’s just Aziraphale’s wishful thinking – Crowley’s been too nervous to even be kissed, never mind talk of marriage). “We could just… be married. Play out the part. Like old times.”

“And you’d be okay with that?”

“Well, if there’s a _reason_.” Crowley sprawls back in the chair, doing a good job of appearing unaffected, which is a sure sign he isn’t. Then he says more seriously, “If there’s a reason. It’s all right. I’ll be your husband, angel. Wife. Whatever. Depending. Suppose the Tadfield gang will have to get used to Nanny Ashtoreth.”

Aziraphale has a moment of insight, but it takes time for the glow of _I’ll be your husband, angel_ to fade so he can see the insight clearly. And it’s this – the way Crowley looked when he said, _if there’s a reason._

If that’s what Crowley needs…

Because Aziraphale has been there. _I’ll hold onto you – just so you won’t trip. I’ll braid your hair, to fix up your disguise. Supper together – that’s in-character. I suppose I’ll stay the night in town – everywhere else is full. I’ll find you, but here’s my flimsy pretext. I’ll stay beside you, if we can say I’ve an excuse._

So maybe that’s what Crowley needs, to feel safe, to start. Plausible deniability. Aziraphale’s already been doing a little of it without fully realizing – _you must be so tired, may as well stay here, in my bed, where I can see you and you’ll be here in the morning. Here are these miracles, you don’t need to acknowledge that they’re my gifts, we don’t have to talk about it._ Giving Crowley these little outs, so he only need admit to as much as he can.

Humans are fantastic at plausible deniability. Aziraphale can already think of one Christmas tradition built around it. He glances up at the doorframe to his office, deep in thought.

The thought remains even as they continue talking, Crowley over the moon at the idea of a holiday with Warlock, Aziraphale thrilled to see him thrilled. Aziraphale leans into him and tangles up their arms. This will be a fantastic trip, getting to see the boy they helped raise, spending Christmas with their friends and with each other… getting to act as couple-y as they please with no one the wiser. Leading up to the time when pretext will fall away; when Aziraphale will have proven what he needs to prove, or at least made a good start of it, and it comes the time to place that raw and beating heart of his on Crowley’s altar, profess everything he’s been too afraid to say and allow Crowley to flee or reject or accept as he will.

They’ll get there, eventually, to that place of honesty, where Aziraphale will finally know if it’s too late (although their recent closeness seems evidence to the contrary). Where Aziraphale will ask _Can I kiss you?_ , knowing full well it might scare Crowley off into one of his patented Avoidance Naps*. Owing it to him, to both of them, to find the words anyway.

* _™_

But in the meantime… if what Crowley needs is a reason…

Who is Aziraphale to deny his serpent what he wants?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some details pulled from my notes for an Ineffable Disney Vacation fic, which I will eventually do, because I’m sure it’s been done but I can’t not. Aziraphale in Mickey ears is cute and I would die for him. Crowley would be so proud of the plants in the Land. Aziraphale absolutely thinks the talking robot trashcans are sentient, and Crowley plays along. They have opinions on the accuracy of World Showcase and Spaceship Earth. And they share a Look every time they hear the word _miracle_.
> 
> Osborne Spectacle was real and gorgeous! I highly recommend [looking at pictures.](https://www.google.com/search?tbm=isch&q=osborne+spectacle+of+lights) It’s so sad they don’t run it anymore!
> 
> (Forgive the out-of-sync updates? The past couple days have been dominated by routine yet miserable medical tests, and I caught up to my backlog a while ago, so I’m writing this live. I hope it’s not too off-putting to have it this way! Working on getting back up to timeline now.)
> 
>  ~~Tomorrow~~ today, for the prompt ‘mistletoe’: Aziraphale reaches Peak Plausible Deniability in an entire fic about plausible deniability. Some time spent working out their backstory and wedding rings. In history, a look at two mistletoe traditions: first, that of truce, which they followed. Second, that of kissing, which they didn’t. But in the present… _they do_.


	15. Mistletoe

Crowley wakes in Aziraphale’s bed again the next morning, because of course he stayed the night. How could he resist? One day soon Aziraphale will regret his invitation, considering how flagrantly Crowley is taking advantage, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when he’s sent to sleep with a forehead kiss ( _again_ , it’s a tradition now or something, the universe apparently wants Crowley to discorporate). Not when he swims up to skim just under the surface of sleep a few times each night to find Aziraphale’s hand stroking his hair. Once or twice he’s bobbed over the surface just long enough to open his eyes; there he sees Aziraphale sitting beside him, reading a book, and when Aziraphale notices him looking he only smiles and continues.

Of course, there are also times Aziraphale _isn’t_ there, and he encounters one now, in what he presumes is the afternoon. But he can hear movement downstairs. He gets up and stretches, amazed at how much more well-rested he feels here. He doesn’t think he’s had a single nightmare. He’ll _have_ to go back to his flat tonight – some of the plants need watering, and others are likely getting complacent in his absence – but in the meantime he is content.

He makes for the door but stops, noticing a shelf on the wall across from the foot of the bed. It wasn’t there before, he doesn’t think. At least not the last time he saw this room in the light, that terrible day Aziraphale was attacked with aether of Hell. Crowley goes over to the shelf and tries to make sense of the objects on it.

There are dozens, and they’re… familiar.

Crowley spots the ugly jumper first, hanging on a hook to one side. The other side features pin lanyards from Disney, stuck through with pins that Crowley spent the whole trip collecting and sneaking into Aziraphale’s things when he wasn’t looking. In the middle, on the shelves themselves, is a baffling array of objects Crowley recognizes from all eras of history. Some of them are recent – there’s a ticket from an opera they attended just last month – but some of them are not, stretching all the way back to a hand-carved wooden boat that Crowley would swear he remembers from ancient Mesopotamia. And they’re not in perfect condition, not gleaming like the day they were made (as the candles from Egypt did, that night on the rooftop). They’re clearly well taken care of, but they’ve aged. Some chips here and there, some loss of luster. Worn smooth as if they’ve been touched time and time again.

These are… _not_ miracles. Has Aziraphale kept them all this time? Crowley runs his fingers over a letter from World War II, typed by his own hand on a cheap typewriter that would now be worth a fortune. Crystals from Babylonia. A long tiger’s tooth from Persia, which makes Crowley laugh. Where have these things been? Is that what was in those trunks the other day, where Aziraphale kept the box that nearly killed him? His darling magpie angel. Who knew that these were here the whole time?

Crowley continues his investigation, touched to see how many of the objects relate to him. Of course a lot of their memories are together, but still, his presence here feels disproportionately strong. And there are some items – the wrapper from a chocolate he got Aziraphale, a calculation he scribbled on a napkin – that seem of very little value save Crowley’s own involvement. He tries not to draw conclusions, but his heart leaps.

He notes, rather smugly, that not a single one of these shelves contains cufflinks to _or_ from Oscar bloody Wilde.

When he descends the stairs, he’s putting together words to ask Aziraphale about his small museum, but Aziraphale greets him with an excited energy in the doorway to the back room and begins speaking right away.

“I’ve been thinking about our backstory,” he says. “We’ll need to work out exactly what we’re going to tell them. Get our stories straight. Harriet thinks we got together _before_ we began working for her, and of course there’s the matter of our background as mortals. Not that Anathema and the others will be under that impression, but Warlock will. You never know what questions they’ll ask.”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to interrogate us,” Crowley answers, amused, deciding to postpone the shelf discussion momentarily.

“But humans do always _ask_ things, at least out of polite interest, and we need to make sure our answers contain no discrepancies!”

It hasn’t been _that_ long since they’ve done assignments in disguise, but Crowley had already forgotten how committed Aziraphale gets to his characters. Another thing that Crowley shouldn’t think of as _cute_ but absolutely does. “All right, then, angel. What do you suggest?”

“We have to decide where we met. How we got together, as humans, that is. I suppose now she knows about the bookshop, so that’s all right, don’t need to work out where we live. Do you think we courted long before we were married?”

“Dated, angel, no one says _courted_ anymore outside of a Regency novel.” Crowley knows he should slow down on the _angel_ s, but he’s always been attached to the word, to the way it feels like showing affection without breaking the bounds of their relationship. Just another of those methods he’s developed over the centuries for saying _I love you_ without giving himself away. He’s feeling closer to Aziraphale than ever, and horrifically fond, which always makes it slip out without permission. At least he sometimes suspects it pleases Aziraphale too.

“ _Dated_ , then. Do you suppose we were friends first? That would probably be more realistic.”

“Sure. But where does a nanny meet a gardener?”

“We needn’t _always_ have been a nanny and a gardener,” says Aziraphale with a gleam in his eye that speaks surely of an impending increase in the complexity of the backstory. They’ve done this many times and it always follows a similar structure, though they’ve never been _married_ before. “You could have a history with plants, too. Perhaps I tended to your grounds.”

Crowley tries _very_ hard not to interpret that as innuendo and shoots back, “Maybe I worked for _you_. You could be the father I scandalously seduced away from his family.”

Aziraphale purses his lips. “Oh, my, I don’t think Harriet would like _that_.”

“Joking, angel.” (Bless it all, there it is again.) “All right, how’s this? I was shopping for ingredients at, let’s say a farmer’s market – and you were there looking at plants. Or selling some, doesn’t matter.”

“Details matter, Crowley, any one of them could blow the whole thing apart! And they do make the story more convincing. We’ll say… I was selling fruits from the small garden at my modest home.”

“Apples,” says Crowley with a grin.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and pretends he, too, isn’t smiling. “If you must.”

“I sssslithered up and asked if I could buy some. Wanted to make something for the family I worked for. You asked my name.”

“I thought you were absolutely gorgeous,” Aziraphale supplies, and Crowley swallows past a sudden lump in his throat.

“Yeah, you… you too. Me too, I mean, about you. Like a bloody oil painting.” He remembers himself and adds, “Minus the teeth.”

“They were a perfectly legitimate character choice!”

“Sure, of course.” Crowley grins again; they’ve had _that_ conversation before. “I was waiting to leave, and you were waiting with me, and it started raining. You… offered to let me stand under your umbrella.”

Aziraphale is giving him a shining look, now. “Oh. Oh, yes.”

“Hated the rain,” Crowley adds. “But you protected me.”

“Oh, but – you’re the one who always carries an umbrella. As Ashtoreth, I mean. Perhaps you sheltered me.”

“I would do,” Crowley says, too honestly, and hopes he’s not giving himself away. “But you know it was you. Maybe… maybe you got me an umbrella for our anniversary. As a callback. And that’s why I always have it.”

Aziraphale looks painfully sentimental. Maybe his eyes are even shining, too, but then the angel’s always been a bit of a sap. “I think that sounds perfect.”

“I asked you on a date –”

“ _I_ asked _you_ out, I’m sure.”

“Have you _met_ Nanny Ashtoreth?” Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“…You asked me on a date,” Aziraphale mumbles.

“Quite right.” (This in Ashtoreth’s Scottish, before he returns to his ordinary voice.) “We went out the very next week –”

“Dinner at the Ritz,” Aziraphale says dreamily.

“On those salaries?”

“Well. A nice sushi place, then.”

“Best sushi in London. And the rest is history.”

“You’ll let _me_ ask you to marry me, of course,” says Aziraphale, suddenly serious.

Crowley’s throat has gone past a lump and may be closing up entirely. _Not what he means,_ he scolds himself, _and you know it._ Still, he’s very delicate about his reply: “Of course. Nanny Ashtoreth wants to be swept off her feet.”

“I think that can be arranged.” Aziraphale is smiling so wide that it might _break_ Crowley, right now, right here. Pieces of Crowley on the floor everywhere. Awful mess. And then Aziraphale’s face lights up with some new thought: “Oh! You’ll need a ring, of course.”

Such commitment to character. Crowley only needs to think for a second before he snaps and a silver ring appears in his hand, embossed with a serpentine figure. “Used this one for assignments before.” It may be just his imagination, but Aziraphale watches very closely as he slides it on, with something strange in his eyes. Not quite disappointment, but… well. A mystery.

Aziraphale keeps staring after it’s on, long enough that Crowley has to prod him:

“Angel. Yours too.”

Aziraphale glances down at his own hand with a start. “Ah. Ah, yes. This will do, don’t you think?”

“Wrong finger,” Crowley says, one corner of his mouth tugging upwards.

“Oh! Yes, you’re right. Marvelous catch.” Aziraphale moves his own gold ring over, and Crowley feels a disappointment of his own, briefly caught up in a fantasy of what it would be like to take Aziraphale’s hands and move it himself, place it on his finger like a claim for eternity. (Aziraphale is still wearing the bell. This is an unrelated thought, but it appears just the same.)

“Convincing enough?” asks Crowley, shaking himself out of the fantasy with the practice of someone who’s done it a thousand times before.

“Yes, I think so. We’ll make for a splendid married couple. But I suppose we knew that already.”

Whether Aziraphale is looking up from under his eyelashes on purpose, or whether he has no sense of what he’s saying, Crowley’s heart will stop the same either way. “Yeah.” He tries for casual but misses it by a mile. “Guess that’s what got us into this, right? I mean, Harriet and Anathema said it when we weren’t even _trying_ , so it shouldn’t be too hard to keep it up now that we are.”

“Precisely.” Aziraphale beams, and then – taxing Crowley’s unnecessary heartbeat further – catches Crowley’s left hand with his own, touching only the fingers, bringing it up to the light. The silver and gold rings shine beautifully beside each other.

And then something grows at the top of the doorframe above them, and Crowley’s heart _literally_ stops, corporation kept standing by sheer infernal willpower. The white berries among the green leaves are unmistakable. He tries to play it off, thinking wildly of distractions, but it’s too late. Aziraphale’s already following his gaze.

“Oh, look,” says Aziraphale, and his tone of voice is _weird_ , this is _weird_. This is all Crowley’s fault, and Aziraphale is going to see it. And despite all Crowley’s imagined disaster scenarios, the journal, the clay tablet, the objects that could lay bare his desire, he never in his wildest dreams thought up anything as incriminating as _this_.

There was a time when mistletoe had slightly different connotations. It was all there from the start, of course (humans will link _anything_ to fertility), but the emphasis was different. The Norse had a whole myth about the plant, about a vile murder committed with it, about Frigga’s tears upon it and a new dedication to peace. So it was that when Crowley and Aziraphale met under a tree in the Viking armor of opposing factions, and Crowley looked up to see a mistletoe plant growing out leaves above them, he rested his sword at his side and said, _“Oh, look at that.”_

Aziraphale was put off by the motion, eyes narrowed suspiciously as if searching for a trick. _“Are you trying to distract me into leaving an opening?”_

Crowley raised an eyebrow. _“Are you saying you_ want _to get into a swordfight here, in the thick of the woods, in the middle of bloody freezing winter, in_ that _armor?”_

 _“Well.. no,”_ Aziraphale admitted. _“But we’re_ supposed _to. I don’t know what we’ll tell them otherwise.”_

_“Good thing they’ve got a tradition for it.”_

The Arrangement wasn’t formal, not yet, but in the centuries since Crowley had suggested it in Wessex, they’d been blurring the lines. Aziraphale had let Crowley take on a few blessings, as a trial run; it took less and less effort to convince him each time. Aziraphale had yet to take on a formal temptation, but Crowley had brought the subject up in a few pubs, and twice Aziraphale had tested the waters with a random human, tipsily attempting to achieve some ridiculous goal Crowley had set forth.

Aziraphale was rubbish at temptations, to start, and Crowley laughed his arse off through the first attempt. By the second, Crowley had spent some time explaining subtleties of the art, and Aziraphale grew determined to prove he could tap into the supernatural ability to supplement his words, just as Crowley used his own powers for the blessings.

When Aziraphale tried the second time, he was a positively sinful thing, a little clumsy but committed, eyes slitting and voice dropping into that low murmur. It wasn’t even a lust temptation, just a greed thing aimed entirely at the human, but Crowley still found himself reduced to a base creature of lust and _want_. It was all he could do after the fact to congratulate Aziraphale and leave before he did something he’d regret. Aziraphale had looked pleased at the praise; Crowley thought of ways to make him look even more pleased, and dug his nails into his own fist to stay silent, and went home to think about the expression on Aziraphale’s tempting face all night.

So when he found Aziraphale under the tree, he was confident Aziraphale didn’t actually want to fight and would appreciate the opportunity for a good drink and an evening of company. He just had to pitch it the right way.

 _“You know about mistletoe?”_ Crowley asked.

Aziraphale shook his head.

_“Oh, it’s fantastic. Humans love it, for one thing, great decoration and all. Loads of myths around it – you’ll remember the one with Aeneas, to start. And it’s actually a parasite plant. Climbs the tree and sucks the life right out of it. Poison, too, although that doesn’t always stop the humans.”_

Aziraphale looked appalled, which wasn’t actually Crowley’s goal here but which was always entertaining. _“How terrible!”_

_“No, but, listen – the myth they have around here, it’s about peace. And it’s a human thing – when enemies meet under mistletoe, they lay down their weapons and have a truce. For a day.”_

Suspicion returned. _“You’re making that up.”_

 _“I am not!”_ Crowley spread his arms wide. _“Look, why would I do that? You’ll only ask the next human you see and if they told you I was lying you’d – I dunno, get your revenge on me the next time. I don’t lie to you. You can ask, if you want. I’ll owe you if I’m wrong.”_

 _“Yes, you will,”_ said Aziraphale, and in that moment Crowley knew he had him.

So they spent the evening together, a hot meal and a strong ale from a nearby inn, and spoke of upcoming assignments with something like peace between them. A formal truce, to match the one they had informally called ages ago – in all honesty, the moment Aziraphale saw a demon upon his wall and chose not to smite him. (For his part, Crowley has never considered _not attacking Aziraphale_ to have been a choice he made. That would imply other options, and there was never a single instant where anything else entered his mind. He is fundamentally incapable of harming Aziraphale, and has been from the moment he laid eyes on the beautiful angel with the river-deep eyes, and if the Almighty has an issue with that, then She really shouldn’t have created him this way in the first place.)

Now, with Aziraphale gazing up at the bookshop mistletoe, saying only _Oh, look_ , with a mild surprise that does not match the circumstance, Crowley wonders if he can convince him it’s a symbol of peace. He searches desperately for the words.

“Ah…” he says eloquently, attempting the start of a sentence and making it no further. That’s probably for the best; he has no idea what the rest of the sentence would have been.

Aziraphale’s eyes are back upon his, searching. Crowley feels utterly exposed. “That puts me in mind of a strange tradition,” Aziraphale says, which is _definitely_ a reference to a memory.

It was a holiday gathering of friends and acquaintances in someone’s parlor, rapidly on its way to becoming a proper party. The parlor games grew wilder as the evening wore on and the wine reserves dwindled. Crowley was present in a beautiful dark green dress at the cutting edge of fashion, just barely straddling the line between respectability and scandal. She had tied red berries into her hair.

Aziraphale was present as well, dressed smartly if a bit out of date, looking increasingly uncomfortable as the young women pestered him with questions over how he had not yet taken a wife.

Crowley smirked at him from across the room and debated how long she should wait before rescuing him.

 _“She’s not married, either,”_ said a young woman who had befriended them both, pointing at Crowley with wine-laden conviction. _“I am beginning to despair of you both!”_

 _“She could have any man she desired,”_ said Aziraphale, _“you know that. It is entirely her choice.”_

 _Not any man_ , thought Crowley. She’d been a bit sad, lately, on this assignment, a bit lonely, but Aziraphale had appeared and all of it flew away. Melancholy scattering like clouds on a summer breeze. She slunk over to Aziraphale and leaned over the back of his chair, practically purring, _“You say that as if you’re not supremely eligible yourself. You must know you’re the talk of the room.”_

 _“That I doubt,”_ said Aziraphale with a wry chuckle. It actually sounded like he meant it. Crowley frowned and swung around to sit on the arm of the chair, pretense fading.

_“Don’t be ridiculous. Every woman in the room wishes she could marry you. Even the married ones.”_

_“Because they think I’m rich?”_

_“Because they think you’re an angel from Heaven,”_ she said, taking on a dramatic tone of voice that she often used to conceal true things. _“Descended from the sky to grace us all with your beauty and charm.”_

 _“I certainly don’t have the market on beauty,”_ Aziraphale replied, and she didn’t think she was imagining the way he looked at her when he said it.

The conversation turned, but as Crowley left the room to refill her drink, she paused by Aziraphale’s ear. _“Don’t dare think you’re not the most beautiful one here, angel,”_ she said, because she was a self-sabotaging train wreck who couldn’t resist.

When she came back into the room, Aziraphale was leaving it, and they nearly collided under the doorframe. In the pause while they chose sides, their human friend gasped. _“Mr. Fell! You’re under the mistletoe!”_

 _“What?”_ Aziraphale looked up at the plant, confused, and then back down at Crowley. His eyes went to her hand, where centuries ago she would have held a sword.

 _“Don’t you know?”_ the human giggled. _“That means you’re allowed to steal a kiss.”_

Victorians, as a rule, were so _bored_. Their parlor games grew more and more ridiculous as time passed, which Crowley delighted in; they were just on the cusp of something new, as a civilization, and they knew it, no longer content to stay in caves and weave, yet the technology hadn’t caught up to their spirit. Winter nights were long and society stifling. These silly games, these elaborate justifications for misbehavior, provided an escape.

Crowley loved them for it. And she especially loved them for this.

Aziraphale was watching her very closely, now, watching – her _mouth_ , she thought, although his eyes quickly flicked away.

 _“Did you hear?”_ she asked, trying for blasé and ending up at breathless. She brought her voice low, something only the two of them could hear. _“You’re allowed to steal a kiss.”_

There was a long moment where she dared think maybe he _would_ – this poor, optimistic Crowley who had never been told _you go too fast_ , who hadn’t yet realized her feelings were hopeless. And he did linger there, not breathing any more than she did, and her gaze fell to his lips, her own lips parting with desire she could not contain.

And then he broke away. _“What a strange tradition,”_ he said with an unconvincing laugh, and left the party not ten minutes later. She didn’t see him for weeks.

Now, with Aziraphale repeating those words in such a different context, Crowley can only echo: “Strange.”

“I suppose,” says Aziraphale, still in that odd tone of voice, “Ashtoreth and her husband would be used to that sort of thing.”

“That… sort of thing?” Crowley has only echoes left, which is probably a good thing, because he wouldn’t trust his own words right now.

“The humans do it all the time. They might be expecting it. Do you suppose… it might be worthwhile to practice?”

Crowley is dead. That’s the only explanation. These are the desperate hallucinations of a dying infernal brain, and his spirit has left his body and is hovering several feet above him, thus the swooping in his stomach. His heart has started beating again only to go so fast he thinks it would probably have killed a human by now*. He licks his lips and then regrets it. Aziraphale does not seem to mind.

* _It would have. Were any doctor to examine him now, they would find any number of alarming symptoms, from the three hundred-beats-per-minute heart rate to the visible lights glowing from his fingertips, not to mention the fizzing in his head that could only be explained by boiling blood. An X-ray might even reveal butterflies in his stomach, a phenomenon that never quite sank into his subconscious as metaphorical, although the doctor could be forgiven for being too distracted to notice those by the supernatural bendiness of his bones. No butterflies are harmed._

“It’s tradition, after all,” says Aziraphale with the same pout he’s used to get Crowley to be _festive_ on so many occasions. He’s using that circuitous logic he’s so fond of. It’s completely different from the way Crowley tempts, but when it comes to tempting Crowley, the method’s accuracy is unerring. “Don’t you think we have _reason?”_

It occurs to Crowley that Aziraphale is expecting him to move, to speak, to do _something_. “A reason. Yeah, that’s… those sound like pretty good reasons.”

“So you’ll kiss me?” Aziraphale brightens up as he speaks those words Crowley never expected to actually hear. Crowley doesn’t understand what’s going on at all. Yes, they’re doing holiday traditions, but isn’t this taking it a bit far? And Aziraphale’s ever so attached to fine-tuning their cover stories, that part isn’t new, but this…

Crowley is at least comforted that his spontaneous, accidental manifestation of mistletoe is not pressuring Aziraphale. He knows what Aziraphale looks like pressured, and this isn’t it. Crowley has barely said a word, and yet Aziraphale hasn’t moved away, if anything has stepped a little closer, and he looks so _hopeful_. “You’re really in the holiday spirit, aren’t you, angel?” he says.

“Indubitably,” Aziraphale replies, which is a _ridiculous_ word, _he_ is ridiculous, and yet Crowley watches it fall from his lips and wants only to chase it with his fingertips, with his tongue.

“And our characters… they would have done it.”

“Oh, quite a good deal, I would imagine.”

They’re standing so close now that Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s breath, the sweet scent of chocolate strawberries, can see the way he’s gone up on his toes just a bit. Aziraphale’s hands are clasping nervously before him, pressure turning them white again, that same thing that always makes Crowley want to grab them up and soothe them. His stained glass eyes are layered in gorgeous color, storm-gray, jade-green, river-blue. Crowley barely notices himself speaking: “That’s true. Practically be in the habit, by now. Can’t pass up the opportunity.”

“Then you’ll do it?” Aziraphale’s eyes widen. Crowley falls right in. “Please?”

That’s all it takes. Crowley moves before he can think, taking Aziraphale’s hands up in his own, pressing his nose into Aziraphale’s cheek and pausing one more time to look at him. Their eyes meet in the shadow. Aziraphale is still smiling, and his tongue runs across his own lips, leaving them to glisten in its wake.

Crowley pushes their mouths together with a desperate inhale and then they are kissing, he is _kissing_ Aziraphale.

Now that he’s started, he doesn’t know how he’ll ever stop, or even want to. He presses in close and moves over him like he’s drinking in the very sustenance of life. Aziraphale hums and steps into him further, feet lining up between Crowley’s feet, hands dropping his hands only to meet around the back of his neck. Crowley’s own hands go to Aziraphale’s lapels and tighten there.

When Aziraphale opens his mouth, Crowley is sure he will melt, or burn, or disintegrate into dust. He licks into Aziraphale’s mouth with singular purpose and is rewarded with a soft sigh. Aziraphale’s hands slide up into his hair, a cool contrast to the warmth of the kiss, and Crowley can’t help but run his own touch across Aziraphale’s cheeks, his jaw, his neck, brushing a thumb down the soft skin of his throat.

Aziraphale’s head tilts back and Crowley pulls him closer with a growl, holding him firmly around the small of his back. _Stay. I have you. I’m keeping you._ Aziraphale’s fingers tighten in his hair, pulling a faint whimper from Crowley’s throat; Aziraphale swallows it down. He’s going to combust, going to burn, going to explode into components of heat and stardust. _You don’t have to love me,_ he thinks, _just give me this, just fucking give me this._

Aziraphale pulls him forward, as if to close every bit of distance between them, and Crowley is abruptly aware that, unlike the day of the wing grooming, he has _not_ lucked into choosing the more subtle trouser configuration today. He pulls back before Aziraphale can notice. Breaking the kiss feels like breaking his own heart.

They’re both panting, looking at each other with wide, startled eyes. Aziraphale’s pink lips are _red_ now with friction and Crowley remembers the feel of them between his teeth, only now realizing he’d been nipping at them. He doesn’t think he went too far. He may be a creature of doubt, but he knows Aziraphale gave as much as he got just now.

“I…” says Aziraphale, trailing off, eyes roaming over Crowley’s face, his cheekbones, his mouth.

Crowley clears his throat without much success. “You, ah.” He doesn’t know where to go from there. He’s distantly aware of the mistletoe still above them.

Then Aziraphale steals another kiss like he can’t help it, pressing his soft lips into Crowley’s own, and Crowley presses back. Their mouths stay closed, this time, and it breaks naturally, leaving them close, breaths mingling.

“I think we got it right,” Crowley says, because otherwise he will say _I am so in love with you._

Aziraphale laughs breathlessly. “I think so, too.”

Crowley doesn’t want to move, not towards _or_ away, because he doesn’t know what he might do that will ruin this. Aziraphale likes kissing. This is news. This is intense, world-changing, life-altering news. _He likes kissing Crowley._ (And maybe Crowley will doubt himself later, when he’s alone, but the evidence right now is too strong before him. No matter how many times he’s been wrong in the past, he _knows_ he cannot be imagining this.)

He wants to say: _In what world does this count as something I already know?_ Unless _Aziraphale_ didn’t know, either – unless Aziraphale is just now finding out that he might want this, might enjoy this. Maybe the mistletoe served as an inspiration. Crowley sends a desperate thanks to his poor subconscious and also to Anathema for being right.

If he plays his cards right (and he’s always been fantastic at poker), Aziraphale will want to do it again. No need to go into the whole _I’ve been in love with you for millennia_ thing. Slow, not fast. (Yes, Crowley has resolved not to hold _too fast_ against him, but he still doesn’t know what it _meant_ , and he’s sure there was some grain of truth in it somewhere.)

Aziraphale likes festive. Aziraphale likes developing their characters. And Aziraphale likes kissing Crowley. Crowley is positive he can put those facts together into a fantastic holiday experience, especially once they’re off in Tadfield, away from their ordinary lives, out where they’re supposed to be married and anything can happen.

“I don’t suppose we can do _that_ to convince them,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale smiles, impish and beautiful. “Mm, perhaps not.”

The moment ends on its own, gently, and Aziraphale bustles into the kitchen. There is the clinking of dishes. “Stay for supper?” Aziraphale calls.

Crowley pauses at the entrance to the kitchen with a wince. “I _actually_ have to water my plants,” he says, for once not an excuse. “See about sorting them for the week we’re gone. They don’t have enough infernal…” (A finger wiggle to indicate _magic_.) “…right now to get by dry, and once you miracle a plant back to life it’s never the same. Zombie plants. Ergh. They just need a bit of a lecture, bit of misting, bit of…” (Another finger wiggle, which Aziraphale watches, looking mystified.) “…and they’ll be all set for weeks.” (Crowley doesn’t say _and then I can stay here tomorrow night, and the next night, every night ’til Tadfield, if you want. Every night after. Let me bring the plants here and never leave._ He’s not sure whether it’s implied; his brain is too worn out to work out any more implications.)

Aziraphale searches his face for a long moment, perhaps checking for veracity. Crowley allows his honest expression to bear up under scrutiny. Finally he says, “Of course, my dear.” ( _His dear!)_ “Do be careful driving. There’s ice on the roads.”

“’Course, angel.” (And _fuck_ , he’s usually so careful not to match _my dear_ with _angel_ so directly, a one-to-one ratio of pet names, a transparent showing of what they mean to him. But Aziraphale doesn’t seem to care.)

Crowley is halfway out the door to the bookshop when Aziraphale follows, stopping him with a word: “Crowley.”

He turns.

“Come back in the morning?” There’s this strange open vulnerability to Aziraphale’s face, like he thinks Crowley might possibly say no. And blast it, he probably thinks Crowley might hide again. But this time he hasn’t overstepped, he doesn’t think – he’s been matched every step of the way. “We need a tree,” says Aziraphale, and he trails off like the argument isn’t very convincing.

Crowley allows himself a brilliant grin. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Aziraphale is directly in front of him now, wearing a small smile. He seems mollified. And then he’s leaning forward just a little, a question, slow like Crowley might back away and Aziraphale is ready to let him.

Crowley’s eyes flicker closed and he meets him there, Aziraphale’s mouth sweet and sure on his own, and then it’s over. Aziraphale backs away and Crowley breathes.

“For practice,” Aziraphale murmurs, and turns back to the kitchen.

Crowley steps out onto the sidewalk in a daze, makes it three steps away, and then plonks himself onto the side of the building. “Fuck,” he says to the cold night air.

He has no idea what just happened, and even less of an idea where to go from here, but he does know one thing: he is _very much_ looking forward to tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started laying out this story, I had a note of three options for the mistletoe prompt: Make It Sweet (this is if they got together here, but it’s a bit early for that), Make It Painful (angst city), or Make It Stupid (Crowley plays dumb like he doesn’t know what mistletoe means and Aziraphale buys it and they don’t even kiss). Went with this instead. Hope you like it!
> 
> Worth noting that the prompt for the 29th is ‘silver and gold.’ Not saying I’m setting anything up for it with those rings… but…
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘tree trimming’: We go back to New York City and the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree, where Aziraphale once yearned for Crowley under glimmering lights. In the present, Aziraphale and Crowley visit a tree farm, which Crowley has _definitely not_ ever terrorized while in the form of a giant snake. They wrangle with lights and garlands. There is more kissing.


	16. Tree Trimming

Aziraphale is humming again. He can’t help it. It’s nearly time for his weekly phone call with Madame Tracy, but bringing his head down from the clouds to focus on their conversation is going to take near-Herculean effort. Because all he can think about is Crowley.

He wasn’t sure how the mistletoe would be received, but he never expected… _that_. Crowley’s mouth on his, warm and demanding; Aziraphale’s hands in his soft hair; Crowley’s arms around him like he was finally where he belonged. And he doesn’t _think_ Crowley is panicking. Hard to know, with him, but he said he’d be back today, and Crowley has never broken his word.

Maybe they can do it again.

The excuses – the mistletoe, the characters – seemed to help Crowley to relax, to know it was okay. Aziraphale wonders how long he can milk _practice_ , and whether he’ll even need to. It’s thrilling to get confirmation that Crowley really _does_ want to kiss him, maybe more. Aziraphale was prepared for a relationship without it, but now that he knows what it’s like, he’s _ever_ so glad that won’t be necessary.

Something changes in the background of the shop and Aziraphale realizes the phone has been ringing, and has in fact stopped, thus the sudden drop in noise. He’s been staring at the same section of shelf for a while now, caught up in his thoughts, feeling lighter than air. He goes to the phone and dials Tracy back before she can try again.

“So sorry,” he says when she picks up. “I was… otherwise occupied. How are you?”

“Oh, it’s a busy week! You know that last-minute holiday shopping*. And Mr. Shadwell keeps saying he doesn’t go in for ‘all that Christmas nonsense,’ but I’ve caught him singing _Jingle Bells_ twice now.”

* _He doesn’t, but last-minute holiday miracles are not all that different a concept._

“I received your holiday card,” says Aziraphale. “It’s just lovely. I have one of my own to send, actually, just as soon as I can get it printed – Crowley’s going to help me.”

“Oh, how wonderful! I’ll have my eye out for it. We’re nearly set up with Shangri-La, you know, might even move there in the spring, but the same address is just fine for now.”

“Congratulations!” It’s so nice that the humans’ lives are turning out so well. They deserve it, for all their help. And he suspects they would be thriving even without his minor blessings. “You know, Newt has moved into Jasmine Cottage as well. It’s something of a theme, of late.”

“And what about Crowley? Still pretending he doesn’t live at the bookshop?” she asks shrewdly.

Aziraphale laughs. Tracy is the one person in whom he’s confided some of his relationship concerns (although never so much as to threaten Crowley’s privacy). At least there’s _one_ human who knows they’re not married yet. (She certainly saw enough of it when he was in her head.) “You know, I’ve actually convinced him to stay over several nights now.”

“Oh, have you? That’s nice! Take any of my advice, did you?”

Now Aziraphale’s blushing and he knows it. He half-expects Crowley to walk in right now, just because his bad timing has always been impeccable*. “Ah, no, nothing like that.” Tracy’s advice was unsolicited but well-meant and absolutely _brimming_ with professional experience. It included several terms with which even Aziraphale was unfamiliar, and he’s lived in Soho since 1800. “But I think I’m really making progress towards having a real, honest conversation with him.”

* _His good timing, too – centuries of rescues speak to that. But Crowley has the demonic ability to walk into a room at exactly the most uncomfortable moment. He mainly uses it on humans, but Aziraphale has occasionally been caught in the crossfire._

“Well, that’s great news! Communication, that’s the trick, I always say. Oh, tell me – did he ever get in touch with Anathema?”

“Yes, he said he’s been talking with her about occult matters,” Aziraphale tells her. “Answering questions. That was you, then, that put them in contact?”

“He rang up one day out of the blue and asked me. Don’t know why.”

“I do appreciate it. We have so much time on our hands now, it will be good for him to make more friends.” And then: “Ah, that reminds me! Has Anathema said anything to you about Christmas?”

“Not to me. But she doesn’t call me near as much as you, love.”

“We – that is, Crowley and I – are going to be spending it in Tadfield. We’ll be staying with the Youngs, along with – an old friend of ours. A boy who was once in our care.” He consults the paper on which he wrote the details, when he called Harriet yesterday to confirm. “They’re having Christmas dinner at three and they said the more the merrier, so I thought I’d let you and Sergeant Shadwell know you’re more than welcome. Adam and his friends will be there, of course. Anathema and her young man. I do hope you’ll come.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she says, which just reminds him of Crowley saying the same last night, and he’s blushing again.

“Madame…” He hesitates, not quite knowing what he wants to say.

“Tracy,” she corrects, as usual.

“ _Tracy_ … Do you think – that is, when someone, well, kisses someone – does that mean they’re ready to admit to, well, other feelings? Or do you suppose it might take longer to get there?”

She makes a noise of consideration. “I would say it depends on the person, but you already know that, don’t you?”

“…I do.”

“Did he kiss you, then?”

He can _hear_ her eyebrows waggling. “A gentleman doesn’t tell,” he says primly.

“Oh, Zira*, I’m so happy for you!”

* _She’s the only person who’s been allowed to call him that since the day Adam and Eve’s children grew old enough to pronounce his name properly. He doesn’t have the heart to stop her._

“I appreciate that.”

“You _do_ know that boy loves you, right?”

He smiles despite himself. “Yes. I do. Now, whether he’s still willing to give me a chance after everything we’ve been through… that I wasn’t certain of. I will say recent circumstances have invigorated my hopes.”

“Just don’t leave it too long. You never know when life is going to throw something at you that you’re not expecting. I know you’re older than Methuselah, but that doesn’t mean dawdle for another hundred years.”

There are multiple understatements in the timeline, there; perhaps she didn’t get a terrific sense of scale from their brief time sharing a corporation. “That’s what I’m doing, this December. I’m… seizing the moment.” He makes stalwart fist and shakes it a few times before remembering she can’t see him and dropping it, glancing out the window self-consciously. “I want him to know that I mean it. I’ve a lot to make up for.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” she says. “You don’t have to get everything perfect before you take the leap. And he’s ready, I’m sure of that. _Been_ ready. Anyone with eyes can see that, never mind I’ve seen the way he’s looked at you _before_.”

It’s always uncomfortable to think of her looking in on his memories (not deliberately, never deliberately, but these things are hard to keep separate in times of great stress, and he didn’t exactly conduct his possession by the book), seeing secret sides of Crowley reserved only for him, seeing Aziraphale’s doubts and weaknesses and mistakes. At least her overview was spotty and best. He can’t tell her that Crowley _isn’t_ ready, or at least, wasn’t as of a month ago – can’t talk about the fleeing and dodging and hiding in slumber. But maybe all that’s changing, now. “I think you’re very nearly right.”

“I’m all the way right. Always am, love, about these things. Now you’d better tell me how it goes.”

He’s again reminded that they’re halfway through the month, moving towards that arbitrary deadline he set himself for putting it all into words. But this isn’t the time to panic. It’s going well. “You’ll be the first I tell,” he promises.

They talk for a while longer (Tracy sometimes keeps him for up to an hour, but he doesn’t mind; she’s delightful company, and a good excuse to delay opening the shop to customers). Afterwards, Aziraphale goes back over the German biographies section and watches the clock tick past noon.

When Crowley rushes in through the door, he’s a wild tangle of limbs and kinetic energy. He sees Aziraphale and stops, looking awkward.

Aziraphale refuses to let the awkwardness stand. “Hello, my dear,” he says, letting all these wonderful feelings in his heart beam through onto his face. It’s a hassle sometimes, being so transparent, but once in a while it comes in handy. “How did you sleep?”

Crowley shrugs. “Not… great. ’S quiet.” And then he glances away, like he hadn’t meant to say it.

_Oh_. Oh, Crowley. “And the plants?” Aziraphale asks in lieu of _Then will you stay here with me tonight? Forever?_ (Odds look good that he might anyway.)

“They know what they have to do. Or else,” says Crowley, baring his teeth in that mock-ferocious way of his. Aziraphale often teeters between finding it alluring and adorable. Right now, he can only remember how it feels to have those teeth pulling at his lips. “So, angel. You said something about a tree?”

Aziraphale shakes those thoughts from his head for now (he’ll pick his moment). “Yes! Here, I have the address…”

Crowley is eventually persuaded to drive them to the tree farm after several promises that they are _not_ putting a tree in, on, or near the Bentley. Aziraphale agrees to have it delivered but insists on going out to pick one themselves; the smaller shops in the city supposedly bring in the cream of the crop, but he knows Crowley secretly wants to inspect them where they grow.

The ride is pleasant once they’re out on open road, to the tune of Schubert’s _Crazy Little Thing Called Love_ , which brings a ridiculous smile to Aziraphale’s lips. He’s often debated how much of the music choice is influenced by Crowley as opposed to by the Bentley itself*, but either way he can’t resist stealing a glance to his right, where Crowley is very deliberately looking at the road**. He lets the moment pass without comment and contents himself with watching sunlight reflect off the silver ring on Crowley’s finger.

* _The answer, of course, is that the Bentley does what it wants. It does have an occult insight into Crowley’s psyche, so it maintains a general sense of what he’s thinking about and what’s been going on in his life recently. Whatever it is that made Crowley climb into the car last night and throw his head back to_ scream _with joy, it knows the angel was involved. And it_ likes _the angel, who is unfailingly polite and complimentary of the Bentley’s beauty, and who always brightens Crowley’s mood; his only flaw is his desire to drive slowly, but the Bentley has picked up enough demonic energy over the years that it_ enjoys _watching him squirm. It did witness a particularly fraught conversation many years ago from which Crowley drove home muttering the words_ too fast _and_ what the blazes does that mean _over and over, but that’s bygone. Now it’s pulling songs that feel the way Crowley feels, and though he grumbles and tightens his grip on the steering wheel like a threat, the Bentley is not deterred. It knows he would never hurt it._

** _Crowley looking at the road_ at all _is quite telling, let alone for more than three seconds in one go. This time he makes eye contact with the car in front of him for ten full seconds – absolutely unheard of._

They disembark at the tree farm and Aziraphale goes to talk to one of the employees. When Crowley finishes parking and walks up beside him, Aziraphale slips an arm through his and continues without pausing, “My husband and I are actually putting it in my shop, which has an opening up to the first floor, so I suppose we needn’t limit ourselves too much as height goes. Don’t you think, my dear?”

He looks up at Crowley, who is taking a moment to process. There’s this darling thing his face does when his brain stalls out; right now it’s doing that in full force.

Aziraphale, who is used to this, smooths past it: “Where do you recommend we start?”

The human leads them to somewhere on the lot and leaves them to their own devices. Aziraphale does not drop Crowley’s arm. “Husband?” Crowley manages in a low voice.

“I assumed it would match their expectation better than _wife_ , at the moment.” He says it matter-of-factly; he wants to show that he’s utterly confident in this. No hesitation, no uncertainty. He will tell the entire world (and Above it, and Below it) that Crowley is _his_ , and that’s that. “Is that all right?”

“That’s not… yeah. Yeah, ’course it’s all right. I guess I just forgot about our story.” Crowley grins and lets go of him to inspect the tree before them.

Aziraphale, who is still not used to the feeling of his same old golden ring having moved to a different finger, looks at Crowley’s ring and doubts, but he lets it slide. Whatever Crowley needs. He turns to survey the greenery. “Oh, these are _lovely._ ”

“No, they’re not,” Crowley says with a scornful glance at the tree he was investigating. “C’mon. Let’s keep looking.”

Aziraphale follows Crowley as he comments on the trees they pass, a grumbling litany without a single outright compliment, although Aziraphale knows Crowley well enough to detect some backhanded ones concealed within the diatribe. Eventually they get to a section where Crowley’s walk slows.

“The other ones were worse,” Crowley says, which is downright praise.

“Why is that?” Aziraphale asks, curious. “I mean, that the section varies. Is it something in the soil?” They really don’t seem that different to him, and although he knows he isn’t a connoisseur, he suspects the humans wouldn’t see a difference either.

“Nah. Suspect it’s peer pressure. Other lot got complacent. These have a healthier sense of competition.”

“Have you spent a lot of time on tree farms?”

Crowley averts his gaze _suspiciously_ fast. “Might have done. A few times.”

“A few times – _Crowley_. What aren’t you telling me?” Aziraphale crosses his arms and waits him out.

Finally Crowley offers a slow grin, which isn’t a good sign. When Crowley starts out reluctant to tell a story only to suddenly embrace it, it’s nearly always something demonic. “Welllll… you know these trees get pretty big.”

Aziraphale nods, at a loss.

“And families come by. Walk among them. Look around. Sometimes even after dark, which is fantastic.”

“And, let me guess. You come here regularly to scare them in the dark? Make spooky noises in the night?”

“Well, I don’t _anymore_. I’ve been very definitively ejected from every farm in the area.”

Aziraphale grabs his sleeve at the elbow, yanking just enough to trap him. “You came with me to a place you’ve been _banned_ from? What if they recognize you? What if you get me in trouble, too?”

Crowley’s expression is of the long-suffering variety he breaks out when Aziraphale is being particularly dense. “Didn’t look like _this_ , angel.”

“Then you…”

Crowley grins even wider as he puts it together.

“As a…”

Crowley shrugs. “Can’t go out in nature and then get all shocked when you see a snake.”

“I don’t _believe_ you!” Of course, Aziraphale does, but that really isn’t the point.

“You should see the looks on their faces,” Crowley says, and _cackles_. “ _Oh, we’ll take this one!_ and out of it comes this great big _massive_ snake, all ready to eat them – I bring the fangs out, of course, hiss a little – they dash off and half the time they don’t even buy a tree at all.”

“Terrorizing families, honestly! Do you really enjoy making children cry?”

“The kids aren’t even scared!” His eyes go wide, all earnestness. “Kids just say _Cool! Look, mummy, a snake!_ They’re great. _Love_ kids. One time a girl said _Can I pet it?_ and the mum actually _picked her up_ to run away.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Aziraphale mutters, trying not to betray the fact that the image is amusing and maybe even a little charming. He imagines the sheer glee on Crowley’s serpentine face as he coils in wait at the very top of an evergreen. He must have lain there for hours, waiting for passersby – taking in the sun in daytime, maybe sleeping, maybe switching trees* as he got bored.

* _Aziraphale has seen Crowley attempt to leap from tree to tree while in snake form a few times. The key word here is ‘attempt’; the memory of a giant snake scrambling to catch a branch in midair while falling rapidly is one that entertains him to this day. Crowley glared at him for daring to witness it and sulked for several days, but every few centuries Aziraphale catches him at it again, still thinking he’ll somehow manage it this time. He hasn’t yet, not once._

“’S definitely worth it.”

“So you’ve avoided tree farms since, but you came with me today?”

“’Course. Had to get our Christmas tree.”

Something in Aziraphale’s expression makes Crowley shift uncomfortably, the way he does when Aziraphale gets sappy about things, and it’s simply darling. He looks away from Aziraphale and busies himself examining their prospects.

Aziraphale turns in a full circle to get a view of the trees around them, all lush and verdant. There’s one in particular that catches his eye – one of the taller ones in the area, though not the tallest; an array of beautifully thick dark branches; straight overall, but with perhaps a small bend in the trunk near the middle, a small bow that works itself out on the way up.

“What do you think, angel?” Crowley asks, which is terrifically sweet of him. It’s like if Aziraphale asked Crowley’s opinion on a rare book.

“I like this one,” Aziraphale says, putting one hand on the trunk and looking up uncertainly. He very consciously tries _not_ to do the pleading thing; it may be fun to tease ( _tempt)_ Crowley into doing things for him sometimes, especially since they both know full well what’s going on, but he doesn’t always want to force it. There’s no need to abuse the privilege.

It turns out not to be necessary. Crowley makes a show of looking it over and then nods, calling one of the humans to chop it down. No real hesitation. Aziraphale’s heart is warmed, and he wonders if Crowley knows the extent to which Aziraphale would do the same for him; if only Crowley would _ask_ for more things, so Aziraphale could grant them!

Crowley stands much too close to the woman with the saw, who gives him a dark look that Crowley matches easily. She gets him to take one small step back before giving it up as a bad job and getting to work. Aziraphale goes up behind him and hears him muttering something at the tree:

“Now don’t make a fuss about it, it’s what you’re for. And this is a privilege, you hear? This angel has the best spot for you in all London. You’d better know how lucky you are.”

Aziraphale smiles and steps beside him, linking their arms again. It doesn’t feel like enough. He slips his hand into Crowley’s. Crowley looks down in surprise but allows it, grips back; Aziraphale intertwines their fingers and leans into his side with a sigh. “It will look so nice in the shop,” he says.

“Yeah. Least, it should. No dropping your needles early like a coward.” (This last, of course, to the tree, which is probably too distracted to pay him much mind at the moment.)

“Oh, we’ll put such lovely ornaments on you,” Aziraphale says, loudly enough that the tree would be able to hear him, if it could*. “Silver garlands and shiny tinsel. I have a skirt for you upstairs, I’ve had it for years, actually, but we’ve never had a proper tree in the bookshop before. You’re just the thing, you’ll do marvelously.”

* _It can, and it’s extremely confused by the dichotomy of feedback being given. Crowley’s right that its neighbors_ are _the competitive type, so it’s proud to have been chosen, but it’s also having an existential crisis as it considers for the first time what being chosen actually_ means _. The person radiating the dark energy and threats seems scary, but he looks at his companion so softly. And the companion is so sweet one could almost forget he's complicit in removing the tree from its roots and stealing it off to places unknown. The tree does like shiny things, though, and has seen precious little of them in its life so far, so it thinks this bookshop sounds like paradise, even if it doesn’t last long. In its little tree soul, the tree decides that it’s worth it. Its soul is inclined to accept such things without fuss. That is what it’s for, after all._

“All right, _never_ speak to my plants. If you fill their heads with this sort of thing, I’ll never see the end of it. You’d better not have done this the last time you came over.”

“I told them they were lovely, because they are,” says Aziraphale, pulling back just far enough to meet Crowley’s narrowed eyes. “And they don’t have heads. They’re plants.”

“Cabbages have heads.”

“And you don’t have cabbages,” Aziraphale points out. Crowley has no response for that.

They handle the payment and delivery instructions (with a minor nudge toward expedience) and get in the car, stopping for lunch on the way back. When they finally arrive at the shop, it’s near dusk.

Crowley goes in first, and Aziraphale could swear his eyes go to the back room doorframe where mistletoe used to hang. (Aziraphale returned the poor thing last night to the Norwegian forest from whence it came.) It only lasts a moment, but Aziraphale suppresses a smile as he follows Crowley to the sofa.

They’re halfway through their glasses of brandy, Aziraphale pressed as close into Crowley’s side as he dares, when Crowley says, “So. Tadfield.”

“Yes?”

Crowley looks just slightly lost, his eyes focused on something that isn’t there. “This weekend, isn’t it? When he… I mean, when we… and he’ll be…”

Something goes soft in Aziraphale’s heart, and probably on his face, too, however he tries to conceal it. They both loved Warlock, of course, and love him now, but he was always closer to his Nanny. And Aziraphale knows it affected Crowley more deeply – Crowley, who has very rarely allowed himself to love at all. “He’ll be so glad to see you, darling.”

Maybe Aziraphale is intoxicated by the prospect of living as a married couple for the next week; maybe it’s all the intimacy and affection, Crowley letting down his barriers; maybe he’s spent too long stopping up his feelings and he can’t anymore. Whichever reason (or all of them), he cannot suppress the _darling_ , and although he didn’t intend to say it, he can’t regret it. If he’d tried to pick his moment, maybe it never would have come, but he likes this better. This slow, creeping, reassuring closeness. The way they’re building something together that will not fall. How long has Crowley been _darling_ in his thoughts? _Precious, dearest one, beloved?_

Much longer than he was willing to admit it, even to himself. But he can say it now, so long as Crowley is comfortable with it. He can say it forever.

Crowley blushes thoroughly, red blooming down onto his throat. He seems momentarily distracted from his worried thoughts. Eventually he says, “You think so?”

Aziraphale covers Crowley’s non-brandy-holding hand with his own. And there’s a sudden sick feeling, like missing a step on stairs, as he wonders if he’s gone too far – if Crowley will leave. (Or at least pull away, put on the glasses he’s taken to removing, create distance.) But he doesn’t. He brings up a thumb as if to keep Aziraphale there – as if Aziraphale’s in any danger of abandoning his touch. “I know it,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley takes a bit to come up with a reply. “He’ll be happy to see you too.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale knows it might be complicated at first – these things can be difficult for Warlock now that he’s older – but it will work out. They will make it work out, in the way of people who didn’t even need to be friends but chose to be family.

“I wonder…” Crowley hesitates, but soon continues, as Aziraphale knew he would – Crowley has a talent for wondering, and never lets nerves get in the way of asking a good question. “I wonder if he thought we were… y’know… too. Like Harriet.”

“That we were married? I’m not sure. I wouldn’t be surprised.” Children are perceptive. Even back then, Aziraphale had seen the looks Warlock gave them sometimes and felt like his own heart were on open display. He’s almost certain Warlock knew how they felt about each other. How he interpreted it is another matter.

“I hope he’s… okay with it.”

“Crowley! Did you raise him to be judgmental of other people’s relationships?”

“Of course not, and you know that! Just… if it’s _weird_. You know?”

Crowley’s face is flushed again, this time with a more straightforward form of embarrassment, and Aziraphale smiles. If it’s going to be like this the whole trip, he’s going to enjoy himself all the more. “I don’t think it’s weird. I think we fit together quite naturally as a married couple.” And then he has a minor panic of his own – _Is that too much? Did I say too much? If I overstepped, if I pushed too far, if he’s not ready…_

But instead of being repelled, Crowley just drops his gaze to Aziraphale’s mouth for the smallest fraction of a second. Then he looks away. “Yeah, that’s… we’ll do good. He’ll. Yeah. We’re good.”

As fun as this game is, Aziraphale doesn’t want Crowley to _combust_ with nerves. And he doesn’t want to trample all over Crowley’s boundaries in his effort to find out where they are. So he risks words, hoping fervently they won’t cause him to flee: “Is this all right, while we’re there? If I’m close to you? If I hold your hand?”

It’s less accurate to say Crowley blushes again and more accurate to say he hasn’t _stopped_ blushing. But it doesn’t seem unpleasant. “I… yeah.”

“You have to tell me if I’m doing it wrong,” Aziraphale says, a minor scold in his tone. “Will you do that? This isn’t worth making you uncomfortable.”

Then Crowley levels something like a glare at him. Oh, his precious demon, who is made more uncomfortable by being accused of _discomfort_ than by anything else they’re doing. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going to make me uncomfortable.”

“Then say you’ll tell me.”

There must be vulnerability in Aziraphale’s expression, because Crowley softens. “Of course, angel. But that’s not going to happen.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, adding a hint of challenge to his tone to cover for how afraid he is to hear the answer: “Even if I kiss you?”

Crowley’s voice goes gravelly and he takes a moment to reply. “ _Yesss_ , ’s fine, ’s’all – good, you’re good.”

The relief that floods Aziraphale then is so strong he’s surprised Crowley can’t feel it. He allows himself the smallest quirk of a smile. “Can I do it now, then?”

Crowley stops completely, any word, any movement gone as he stares. “ _Bloody_ keen on this practice thing, you are,” he says in amazement, but it’s not very convincing. His breath has already sped up.

“You know I can be very thorough,” Aziraphale murmurs, leaning towards him and waiting. Crowley tilts his face downward.

“Then I suppose we’d better get to it,” Crowley says, his voice _sinfully_ deep, and Aziraphale moves to meet him.

If he was worried (he wasn’t) that it might not live up to his memory, this is more than enough reassurance – it’s somehow _even better_ , and all Aziraphale can think is that if it keeps getting better every time, it’s going to discorporate him sooner than later. As it is, Crowley is delectable, and Aziraphale sweeps out his tongue to capture more of that flavor from his bottom lip, the taste of black cherries and brimstone. He buries a hand in Crowley’s hair immediately this time, with no pretext, and Crowley is rubbing circles down the back of his neck.

It’s different now that they’re sitting down – Aziraphale can let his knees go weak, and he has the distinct impression that he could crawl up onto Crowley’s lap and Crowley might _let_ him. It’s also different now that they’re holding brandy glasses, which ties up one hand each and limits their movements to avoid the consequences of gravity; Aziraphale briefly wishes to set them down but can’t bear to move away from Crowley for a heartbeat. (His heart is pulsing so quickly that a heartbeat wouldn’t be long at all, but still much too long for them to be separated.)

Aziraphale pushes into him further and, like Crowley knew exactly what he wanted, teeth come out to mark divots into the skin of his lips. Aziraphale breathes, and breathes, and can’t think, his _demon_ is here, his beautiful serpent, touching him like he’s always longed to be touched, his sole focus (apparently) to take Aziraphale absolutely _apart_. If this is what _kissing_ is like, Aziraphale isn’t sure he’ll _survive_ what comes next, and he isn’t even sure he’ll mind…

He’s just contemplating moving his attentions along Crowley’s jawline when a knock sounds from the door. Aziraphale leans back and laughs breathlessly. Crowley joins him after a moment, although from the look of him he may not entirely know where they are or why they’re laughing yet. “The tree,” says Aziraphale, patting his knee, and gives him a moment to recover as he goes to answer.

A pair of humans bring the tree in and insist on setting it near the proper vicinity, asking something about a tree stand, to which Crowley shrugs and Aziraphale says “Yes, we’re fine” and sends them on their way. They’re left staring at the tree, which is propped up against one of the pillars. “I don’t actually _have_ a tree stand,” says Aziraphale.

“You do now,” Crowley replies, and he does.

It’s sitting right in the center, where it belongs, and getting it set up takes much longer than it’s probably supposed to. In the end it involves Aziraphale tapping into a fair bit of true-form strength to hold the tree up as Crowley fiddles with screws at the bottom; even then he’s not sure if it would have worked without Crowley’s threats to feed the tree to a woodchipper early if it doesn’t stand up straight. (“You’re doing great,” Aziraphale murmurs to the tree afterward, when he thinks Crowley won’t catch him, but Crowley’s glare suggests he was caught after all.)

Aziraphale fetches lights and garlands from upstairs – some hoarded, some recently purchased – as well as the tree skirt, a beautiful cascade of red and white. They somehow get one of the garlands into a knot, and nearly knock over the tree in rectifying it; the lights don’t want to cooperate and a surreptitious snap is needed to supply them with the requisite power. Still, it’s quite a lot of fun. It feels properly _domestic_ , doing this with Crowley, and Aziraphale can’t help but hope this is a new ritual for them, something they’ll repeat every year for decades to come. Maybe even after it falls out of fashion, they’ll still be decking their Christmas tree, long after humans have any idea what it used to mean. He’s growing quite fond of the concept of eternity, if he gets to spend it with Crowley.

They have nothing to put on the top of it, which Aziraphale regrets badly until Crowley waves a hand and something appears, brightly lit and gleaming. Aziraphale gasps and looks over at him. He’s avoiding eye contact, ducking his head self-consciously. His hair shines brilliantly under the white lights.

“Made it smaller,” says Crowley. “Wouldn’t fit otherwise.”

“It’s perfect,” Aziraphale answers, and gazes up at a very familiar star.

New York City in 1969 was a vibrant, complex landscape, full of progress and struggle and _life_. Something had changed for Aziraphale and Crowley, since Aziraphale had given him the holy water; they no longer needed pretense for spending time together, though it was still furtive, still always looking over each other’s shoulders for danger. Aziraphale was painfully aware at every moment that he could have kissed Crowley, in the car, after he handed over the thermos, and that Crowley would have let him. That no one in Soho would have cared. That he could have dragged Crowley back to the bookshop, _Anywhere you want to go? Yes, home,_ and snogged him senseless where no angels or demons could see, and… and…

And it was too dangerous, so Aziraphale simply went out with him to viewings and restaurants while trying not to dwell on the desperate _want_ within him, trying to be content with trips to the Guggenheim and Radio City Music Hall and the Four Seasons and going their separate ways at the end of the night. The air was electric with possibility. The culture of the circles they moved in certainly didn’t help him forget – it was all well and good to repress this sort of thing in Victorian England, but spending their days among the crew at Andy Warhol’s Factory made it much harder to remember where the barriers were.

It was also an absolute and deliberate choice to both present as man-shaped beings, going out to dinners and speaking intimately of each other, keeping the company they kept, in the immediate aftermath of Stonewall. There were so many wonderful humans doing such important work. Aziraphale supported them and blessed them; Crowley supported them and cursed their enemies. Aziraphale nearly burst with pride when he heard the proposal for the first liberation march.

For all the alternative places they frequented (Aziraphale was heavily involved with the Oscar Wilde Memorial Bookshop), they spent their fair share of time playing tourist as well. That was how they found themselves outside Rockefeller Center at night, gazing up at the most massive decorated tree they had ever seen.

_“’S impressive, isn’t it?”_ asked Crowley, who looked positively tempting under the moonlight. Aziraphale had to tear his eyes away, pretend he’d been looking at the tree at all.

_“Yes, quite,”_ he said. _“It’s amazing what humans can do. You know… we speak very highly of light and beauty, but Heaven would never think of this.”_

_“I can think of one angel who could manage it,”_ said Crowley softly, and _now_ he was looking at Aziraphale, which was unfair. So unfair that they couldn’t touch one another, couldn’t come together under that gorgeous tree, couldn’t close the space between them and show everything they couldn’t say. (And unfair they couldn’t say everything they couldn’t show, either. Danger all around.)

_I love you,_ Aziraphale thought, so strongly he was worried for a moment he’d said it – something that happened more often than he liked to admit. _“Did you see the ones back there?”_ he asked instead.

_“Oh, the angels? Yeah. They’re nice too. Don’t think you ever had a trumpet, though.”_

Now Crowley was teasing, and Aziraphale couldn’t help smiling in response. _“I never learned to play.”_

_“S’ppose it would be hard to manage it with just one hand. You know. What with the flaming sword in the other.”_

Aziraphale smacked his arm very lightly, biting his own lip to try to control the smile, which didn’t work. _“Fiend.”_

Crowley’s grin showed off too many sharp teeth and Aziraphale stared. Couldn’t help it. _“Always.”_

They fell into a comfortable silence and Aziraphale could have cried, just thinking about how natural it felt, standing here together. He could almost imagine they were just another human couple, gazing up at the tree before going home together. There was an ice rink here, too, where he could see couples skating, and he couldn’t help but think of a time in the nineteenth century when he and Crowley had done the same.

There wasn’t a way to ask again now; no way to say _Skate with me?_ without clearly saying the rest without words, _Be close to me, stay with me, love me and I’ll love you like you deserve._ He couldn’t imagine ever being able to say that, them being who they were. And so he couldn’t imagine ever skating with Crowley again. And it broke his heart.

He had Crowley right here beside him, and yet he felt like he was in mourning.

_“Look, angel,”_ said Crowley with the briefest touch of his arm, that small and welcomed liberty, _“did you see the star?”_

Aziraphale looked up, then, and saw it – the purest, brightest light of them all. _“My goodness. That must be enormous up close.”_

_“Reckon it is. S’ppose we could pull it down? Shrink it, put it in a pocket. Little souvenir. Humans wouldn’t know what hit ’em.”_

_I would pull down the stars for you,_ thought Aziraphale, and then crumpled the thought and shoved it deep down within, because that was danger, it was all _danger_. _“Mm, that would be nice,”_ he said. _“It doesn’t belong in a pocket, though. It needs to shine.”_

_“You’re right.”_ Crowley’s voice was low and contemplative as he stared up at the star. Aziraphale was glad to be looked away from so he could resume his perusal of Crowley’s pale throat, his cheekbones, his beautiful eyes. He drank in the sight like water in the desert.

And then he looked away and shoved it down. Parceled it into a memory he would revisit when lonely. Reminded himself who they were, and all the reasons they couldn’t. _“But I’m glad we got to see it, while we could,”_ Aziraphale said. And they went back to their separate lodgings without another touch, not even on the arms, not a single drop to sustain them because they knew they could drown in an inch of water.

Now, gazing up at the tiny version of the Rockefeller star on their tree, Aziraphale takes one of Crowley’s arms and winds both of his around it, placing his head on Crowley’s shoulder, opening himself to the flood. He thinks he might be trembling. He hopes Crowley can’t tell.

“I hope you didn’t _steal_ it,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley laughs. “Right. Time travel. Nah, I’ll… send it back? That’s how it works, right? If the lake’s any indication.”

“I have genuinely no idea.”

“Well, if you stumble across an old article about the star going missing, you’ll know why. They use a new one now anyway.”

“If I do, I won’t tell,” says Aziraphale. Crowley smiles at him. Aziraphale clutches him tighter.

Eventually Crowley yawns, and then tries to pretend he didn’t, which Aziraphale takes as a sign.

“All right, then, let’s get you to bed or you’ll be no good tomorrow. And we need to get ornaments.”

“Ornaments,” says Crowley, like the thought is novel.

“Yes, my dear. I know we have at least a couple between us, but we’ll need more if we’re to do the thing properly.”

“Well, we’ve got to do it properly.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know if he’s being teased, but Crowley’s voice is fading into drowsiness, and Aziraphale is so _fond_ of his tired almost-husband that he quite forgets to be annoyed. “Come on, then,” he says, and follows (pushes) him up the stairs.

There’s a moment, as Crowley draws back the covers, that he looks uncertain. And not the uncertainty of _Should I invite you in?_ (which Aziraphale can easily imagine) but more of an, _Is this okay?_ Which is silly, because he’s stayed over a few times now, and Aziraphale only ever gets more and more certain that he wants it to continue forever.

Aziraphale places a hand over his, reassuringly, and guides him down. Once Crowley is settled, Aziraphale strokes that hand over his hair, because he’s really quite hung up on it, but at least he knows himself, thank you very much.

“Good night, angel,” Crowley says with a smile, eyes warm and knowing in the dark.

Aziraphale drops the usual kiss on his forehead and says, “Good night, serpent.” And then he pauses, there, sharing Crowley’s breath, wondering, debating it with himself.

Crowley tips his head back, offering himself up without breaking his gaze. Aziraphale leans back in and places a long, soft kiss on Crowley’s lips.

When he pulls back, Crowley is still watching him, eyes now wide and wondering, roving over his face as if to memorize him. He reaches up to touch Aziraphale’s cheek. As he pulls away, Aziraphale catches his wrist and follows it back down to the bedspread, squeezing his hand once before letting go. He makes it to the doorway before he can’t resist looking back.

Crowley looks small and precious, half-hidden under the covers. Aziraphale can’t wait to come back and sit with him, later in the night. To know he’s there. Safe, where he can be touched, and watched over, and loved beyond measure.

“I can’t bless you,” Aziraphale says, mock-stern, “so you’re responsible for your own dreams. Make sure they’re lovely.”

“’kay, angel. What’ver you say,” Crowley mumbles, losing more vowels as he falls asleep, and then he’s out.

Aziraphale doesn’t say that he’ll still be there to miracle away any nightmares, the moment he sees them, to make sure Crowley is safe from all harm while he sleeps, even from his own mind. He doesn’t tell him this, but he thinks Crowley already knows*.

* _He does. For all the other things he doesn’t know, this one, he does._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This gorgeous article](https://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/news/g4848/rockefeller-center-christmas-trees-history/) has a _ton_ of pictures of the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree, all throughout its history!
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘ornament/bauble’: Crowley and Aziraphale have an outsize impact on the development of Christmas trees through the years, from Adam and Eve to Queen Victoria (with a brief stopover to argue with Oliver Cromwell). In the present, Crowley struggles to understand Aziraphale’s sudden and undeniable interest in him, and a miracle competition arises over ornaments. (No spacetime singularities are created… but it’s close.)


	17. Ornament/Bauble

Crowley dreams of Eden.

He spent the first few days of his time there burrowing underground, surfacing at intervals when he thought there might be something interesting to look at. And there _was_. The sunlight, the breeze, the trees – all of it was new, and so different from the dark, cramped confines of Hell. Even his vague memories of Above weren’t anything so delightful as all _this_.

His orders were to ‘cause trouble,’ so he poked around for opportunities, and that’s how he first saw the angel.

Usually, the angel stood atop the Eastern Wall, just above the Eastern Gate, and Crowley (who was then Crawly, who hadn’t yet heard even the faintest suggestion he might be something more) didn’t bother paying attention to him. Angels weren’t interesting. They were all the same – self-righteous and smite-happy, lording it over you that you’d undergone the agony of the Fall while they stayed up on their perfect clouds. The angel at the Eastern Gate looked very small all the way up there, but he was certainly dangerous, what with the sword he clutched in one hand. It almost seemed to dance with flames in the sun. (Crowley thought he saw a fluff of white-gold, too, the angel’s hair shining, but he didn’t dare keep looking. Surely the angel would spot him and smite him. He still wasn’t sure what smiting entailed, exactly, but he’d heard it was unpleasant, and he wasn’t keen to find out on his first day aboveground.)

But later, when the darkness of night fell and the humans slept… that was a different story.

Crowley noticed right away the distinct lack of angel in his usual place but figured it was just some trick of the dark, even though he could see very well in this snake body – could sense shapes forming from shadows, clusters of heat and energy. (He could also see stars, burning impossibly bright, even in daytime, but that seemed like a different sense altogether. It persisted even when he tried out the more human-like form he’d been given. But what reason could there be for a demon to sense the stars like a part of his own self?)

Soon in his slithering he came across a clearing beside the Garden’s small stream; in it, a large rock, and on the rock, _someone_. Not one of the two humans. Crowley wondered briefly if God had made another human without telling anyone – She was doing rather a lot of that lately. He moved forward in the grass, whisper-silent, until he could see the person more clearly.

The person was… beautiful. (And demons shouldn’t know beauty, probably… he was still working out what being a demon meant, but that was a safe bet. And yet. He knew it immediately, like he had never known anything else.) Round, open face; eyes swirling almost clear in the darkness; smooth skin visible in places where the white robe dropped away. A strangely familiar cloud of white-golden hair. He looked like he would be soft to the touch, if Crowley were to coil around him, and he was wondering if he might ask to do just that when he rounded the rock and spotted the sword on the other side.

Crowley flattened down and couldn’t help a small hiss. Luckily, the angel didn’t notice. He was preoccupied with something in his hand.

Something edible, must’ve been, because the next thing he did was take a bite and then close his eyes, savoring, transported. Crowley, watching, was transported too. And when the angel opened his eyes, still filled with bliss, Crowley forgot who he was, where they were, what it all meant, forgot everything. He slid closer to watch.

The angel took another bite, and Crowley’s curiosity overcame him. (He had never been good at withstanding his own curiosity.)

_“What isss that?”_ he asked, voice coming out in that hypnotic hiss of his snake form, so different from the way the humans spoke.

The angel turned, saw him, and… _smiled_. _“Hello, there!”_ he said, with a little wave. He didn’t _seem_ dangerous. _“They’re strawberries,”_ the angel continued with the pride of someone who’s just learnt a new word. _“They grow here. Would you like one?”_

Crowley stared at the offered fruit. It was red and plump, already bitten once. Crowley found himself much less entranced by the fruit than by its juice running down the angel’s hand, down his wrist, down until it disappeared into the sleeve of his robe. The juice was on the angel’s lips too.

_“Oh, do snakes not eat strawberries?”_ (The word ‘snakes,’ too, was clearly new, and the angel bounced a little as he said it.) _“I’m afraid I’m not caught up yet on all this information about Earth. There’s so much of it!”_

Did he… _not_ know Crowley was a demon? Did snakes grow this big in Eden? He was pretty sure they didn’t, but maybe he was wrong*. _“Keep it,”_ Crowley said finally. _“You’ll enjoy it more.”_

* _Not only was he right, but he also skipped straight over the knowledge that they didn’t_ talk _, either. Hell’s briefings had been useful but extremely short. Heaven’s briefings, on the other hand, had been flowerily phrased but steeped in a general sense of ‘you have no need of more information than these vague instructions, the Almighty’s secrets are Her own, and why are you even asking, anyway? Are you thinking a question? That’s blasphemy, you know.’ Neither had offered any substantial preparation for what Earth turned out to be, and both operatives were lucky to have maintained their instinctive angelic and demonic healing, as evidenced by several early encounters with concepts such as sharp-things-cut-you, poison-is-bad, rocks-are-heavy, and don’t-antagonize-the-mountain-lion. (This last to Aziraphale, who never quite outgrew the habit of trying to befriend everything he came across, but at least got smarter about his methodology.)_

_“Oh, thank you,”_ said the angel, and his eyes shined as he swallowed the rest of it.

Letting this angel think he wasn’t a demon… Crowley couldn’t deny it was an attractive prospect. As soon as he came clean, there would be anger, and shouting, and some stabbing with the sword, and maybe even smiting (whatever that was). Deception, Crowley knew, was a demon’s game. Right up his alley (whatever an alley was). Just the thing he was meant to be doing. And it did feel _bad_ … but it didn’t just feel bad. It felt… _wrong_. (There was a difference? There was. _Why_ was there a difference?) The angel might be sad about it. And maybe he was just as mean as the other angels, but he didn’t seem that way thus far.

So although he didn’t understand even half what he was thinking and feeling, Crowley decided, then and there, that he didn’t want to lie to this angel.

_“’m not jusssst a ssnake,”_ he said, trying to tone down the hissing and finding it only got worse to match the queasy feeling in his stomach. _“Not from Earth.”_

The angel’s brows knit with confusion. _“But you’re not an angel, are you? I thought I knew all the angels down here – although it’s just me lately, really. And I’ve never seen an angel take on such a lovely, creative form. So I don’t think you can possible be…”_

Crowley waited with an unblinking yellow stare. (Inside, some part of him tucked away the words _lovely, creative_ and placed them in opposition to _crawling in the dirt_ and began to muse.)

_“But if you’re really not an angel, I can’t think of what else you might be! Unless of course you…”_ The angel chuckled a bit, and then stopped. His eyes widened. His mouth gaped in a way that would have been entertaining had it not portended imminent smiting.

Crowley tried to shrug, struggled with his lack of shoulders, and decided he would figure out how later*. The sword, untouched on the ground, flared to brilliant light – flames after all. Crowley backed a way just a little.

* _He did not. He also never stopped attempting it._

_“You’re a_ demon _,”_ the angel said around a gasp. It was strange that he seemed so surprised. Had he not expected to encounter an adversary? Crowley had been briefed extensively to expect the presence of angels, and to avoid them at all costs. To be sneaky and devious in handling them.

_“Ssssorry, ’m not – not messssing with anything, I sssswear, jusst sssaying hi, I’ll, ah – be on my way. Now,”_ he said, not sneakily or deviously in the slightest.

The angel looked at him with mistrust but then, oddly, turned his disappointed gaze back to the other fruits in his hand. _“I suppose demons_ definitely _don’t eat strawberries.”_

_I could, if you wanted me to,_ Crowley thought, but even he knew that was an undemonic thing to say. _“Nah. Hey, aren’t the fruitsssss off-limitsss?”_

_“Hmm? Oh, no, that’s just the apples.”_ He pointed up at a tree in the distance. _“Everything else is fine. If the humans can eat it – well, I see no reason that we shouldn’t! Don’t you?”_

It took Crowley a moment too long to realize he was meant to nod, and by the time he did, the angel was already talking again:

_“I mean, getting the lay of the land, so to speak. Just to know what we’re in for with these humans. To help us understand them, and better do our work for the Almighty. Or –”_ He stopped short. Crowley would have sworn his eyes were changing color, shifting with every new mood. They seemed to dull as he remembered who he was talking to. “My _work for the Almighty. I don’t suppose that matters to_ you _.”_

_“’sss jusst a job,”_ Crowley said, as if it might gain him back some approval. _“We do what they tell usss.”_

_“But it’s_ important _,”_ said the angel, plaintive. _“Oh, it’s so difficult to tell whether I’m getting it right. I have absolutely no idea what’s coming next. Not that that’s a bad thing,”_ he added hastily. _“But it does make it harder to know how the work is going.”_

_“Looksssss all right ssso far. Good plantssss,”_ Crowley offered. _“Humansss sseem all right. You’re fine.”_

_“Thank you.”_ The angel beamed, and Crowley’s insides did something funny at the sight of that smile. Weird. He thought about asking Beelzebub what that sensation meant, but just as quickly thought he didn’t want Beelzebub getting anywhere near this angel, though he wasn’t sure why. _“Will you be here long?”_

_“Better get out of your way,”_ said Crowley, who knew he was pushing his luck on the whole smiting thing, and who couldn’t block out the sight of the sword flaming in the corner of his eye. _“Jusssst ssscouting around. Enjoy your ssstrawberriessss.”_ He slithered towards the edge of the clearing, not wanting to do his burrowing-underground trick in front of the angel. Maybe because it would reveal secrets to the opposition; maybe because he didn’t relish the thought of becoming something low and dirty before this bright creature. There were plenty of things he liked about himself, about being a snake, but he wasn’t sure the angel would see it that way. Was it even possible for an angel not to be disgusted by these demon-y traits? He knew it shouldn’t have mattered, and yet it did.

_“I didn’t get your name,”_ the angel called after him, sounding almost – disappointed?

Crowley turned, allowing himself one more sight of the pale face in the moonlight. _“Next time.”_

As he left the clearing, the angel said behind him, _“Yes. Next time.”_ and almost seemed pleased at the prospect.

It was only later that Crowley realized he hadn’t learned the angel’s name, either. But _angel_ suited him. He’d remain _angel_ in his thoughts for the rest of time.

He still wasn’t _sure_ about the angel, who may not have acted like other angels but who still could have been just like them deep down, where it mattered. It was a nice fantasy to imagine more, but Crowley was sure the angel would never truly break ranks with the rest. Never think for himself _(strawberries_ notwithstanding, though they wouldn’t leave his mind) – never have any common ground when it came to thoughts and questions. When it came to _doing_ things, Crowley told himself, the angel wasn’t anything special. He would never act on his own.

Until he did. Until he gave his sword away. And Crowley was lost, utterly.

He sheltered under the angel’s wing (and received a name in return, _Aziraphale,_ a beautiful sound to match a beautiful creature) and fell in a way that was much more pleasant than Falling.

He watched Aziraphale more than he liked to admit, those next years. It was easy to follow him in the underbrush. Aziraphale traveled along with Adam and Eve, sometimes camping in the distance, sometimes keeping their company. He protected them – more, Crowley suspected, than his orders said he ought.

When Eve birthed her first child, the very first human ever to be born on Earth, Aziraphale watched from afar. He spotted Crowley at his feet.

_“I can’t ease it with a blessing,”_ Aziraphale said, wringing his hands. _“Strict orders, though I don’t know_ why. _Must be a reason. I do hope she’s all right.”_

Crowley would weep, later, for the very first time, knowing he led her down the path that cursed her line with childbirth pain for all eternity. For now, he stood watch beside Aziraphale, knowing each cry was his own fault. Knowing, for all that it was her own choice, he had ruined her.

When the baby was born, Aziraphale cooed over it and held it and blessed it immediately. Crowley walked away before he could be seen.

Eve found him in the riverbed the next day and held the child down to him. Crowley stalled for a moment, not knowing what to do – flicked out his tongue to taste the sweet powder scent of new life – placed his snout very gently against the top of the child’s head.

_“Nicccce job,”_ he said to Eve, a little sarcastic but friendly, which summed up their relationship so far.

_“If it weren’t for you,”_ she said seriously, looking into his eyes, _“I wouldn’t have him. Wouldn’t know how to make him. Wouldn’t know about any of this, out here, in the world.”_

_“Don’t you misss the fruitssss?”_ His tone was quiet, a rare moment without pretense. _“The lush treesss?”_

_“I don’t regret it,”_ she said with a small smile.

He found himself tearing up for a very different reason than the night before.

Adam built a more permanent dwelling by the time the secondborn came; they learned to till the land and herd the animals they had named at the beginning. Aziraphale built* himself a small hut, far enough away they need not cross paths for weeks at a time unless they wished. Crowley burrowed in the Earth but did not slither back to Hell nearly as often as he’d originally planned.

* _There were more miracles involved than were probably necessary, and Crowley loved poking his head in through a small gap in the thatch and watching the angel rest, the way he put his feet up and made meals of the finest food in the area, the way he miracled something flat and soft on the floor to ease the harsh terrain._

They learned from the first winter (which Crowley endured by picking up the tricks of the Earth snakes and slowing himself down to a near-stop*, and which Adam and Eve endured huddled together around their infant with Aziraphale sending them an unauthorized, steady glow of warmth). Future winters were kinder, with sturdy shelter and fires that could be tended without use of a certain sword.

* _He would later reverse this trick to speed himself_ up _and slow everything_ else _down to a near-stop, and was rather proud of himself, if a bit surprised no other demon had bothered to figure it out. He was unaware how much a base and personal ancient knowledge of the fabric of spacetime assisted him in the discovery._

And eventually, in those later winters, Eve took an interest in a certain kind of tree.

The first time she approached the evergreen, which towered improbably in the middle of the desert, she saw Crowley there and smiled without surprise.

_“This one is too pretty to feed to the fire right away,”_ she said.

Crowley, who was maintaining the unlikely plant as one of his many boredom-inspired botanical experiments, couldn’t help a surge of pride. Didn’t bother, in fact, because it was a proper sin* and he needed to get his numbers up. Pride was only dangerous when it arose from Aziraphale’s compliments, sweet-tasting and heady and accompanied by a flush of warmth. He didn’t know why the difference was important, but his gut instinct told him it was, and Aziraphale’s frequent course corrections were slowly fine-tuning Crowley’s sense of what was Allowed between them and what was not.

* _He fudged the definitions a bit in his reports to Hell, which might have accounted for some of the confusion humans would show in later centuries. True Pride, in the sense of implicit superiority to other beings, was something Crowley had never quite got the hang of. Vainglory, bundling up hollow boasting (to Hell) and vanity (to everyone), he could do; on reports he split his vainer moments evenly between Vainglory and Pride and so far no one had objected. Sloth was inarguably his best. The others were works in progress – he could work up a fantastic Wrath shouting at the Almighty, while Lust was mostly a mystery, though he was starting to suspect he could jumpstart it with certain sensations inspired by a certain angel. Come to think of it, Aziraphale might be a useful source of advice on Gluttony, too – it certainly looked pleasant when_ he _did it._

Since Eden, Eve had the habit of collecting trinkets – little things from nature, pretty things, seashells and bird feathers and flower petals. That winter, she took out her collection from its travel pack, finally settling into the idea of a permanent home. She stored them at the foot of the tree, and as the months wore on, she began to hang them from the branches with tiny fishhooks.

_“Clever,”_ Crowley said one day, in his more human-ish form but with his black wings spread, as there was no one on Earth who didn’t know what he was.

Eve grinned at him. _“Do you like it? I wanted something pretty to look at, at the edge of the field. I was worried the wind would blow them away, but Aziraphale gave it a blessing so it won’t.”_ She said _Aziraphale_ differently than Crowley – more reverence (not as reverent as Crowley said _angel_ in his mind, but no one needed to know that), less familiarity. Already a barrier was growing between _us_ , the human family, and _them_ , everyone else. Crowley was grateful she hadn’t yet trapped him on the outside of it.

He considered the tree, feigning indifference. _“’S all right. All these tiny bird feathers, though – you need something better.”_

_“Like what?”_ Eve asked, eyes wide. He had led her away from her Innocence, but there was still a sweet innocence inherent in her personality, a childlike wonder.

Crowley plucked a feather from his one wing. One of the best – a sleek primary, long and raven-dark. _“Like this.”_

She threaded it onto the tree immediately, giving it a place of honor near the very front. Crowley preened, both literally and figuratively, but did not submit it on his report under either sort of vanity. It didn’t seem like the sort of moment that needed sullying in the machine of Hell.

Three days later he was slithering past the tree when he stopped short. Stared. Felt a whole mess of feelings he didn’t know how to process.

Next to his black feather, on the same hook, hung a white one. Soft, slightly shorter, of pure and glowing hue. Where the feathers bent inwards at the bottom they brushed together and crossed, tips pointing out past each other, Crowley’s in front. Eve had bound them together at the top with a silver chain. Crowley shifted to his taller form and used his human hands to turn the feathers so Aziraphale’s was the front one. The better to see the glow.

_“Did Eve sssteal one of your feathersss, angel?”_ he asked when he next saw Aziraphale. (He’d thought that saying _angel_ aloud would calm the frenetic pulse of it in his brain, would reduce it to a mere word of fact that could then be discarded. It did not. It bared a little of his soul, the way he said it, but it made Aziraphale smile, so he couldn’t bear to stop.)

_“Hmm? No, I gave it to her,”_ said Aziraphale. He was facing away as he reorganized something on the shelves of his hut, completely untroubled by the presence of an infernal snake behind him. Crowley hadn’t lost the urge to coil around him, to wrap himself up in that softness, but he’d grown better at functioning despite it.

_“You gave it away?”_ Crowley asked with a smirk, and at this Aziraphale did turn, for the sake of giving him a look that was utterly unimpressed.

_“Please, Crawly*. As if you didn’t do the same.”_

* _Aziraphale said the name so differently from Beelzebub and the other denizens of Hell. It almost didn’t sound like an awful thing to be. Still, Crowley-who-wasn’t-yet-Crowley idly wished it could undergo some improvement._

The image of Aziraphale noticing Crowley’s feather on the tree, becoming inspired, producing one of his own so they could nest together in the shade of the evergreen… it warmed Crowley more than any fire, that winter and the next, when Eve unpacked the hanging treasures from their summer hiding spot and put them up again. It warmed him every winter they stayed there.

Every winter until they left, with blood fresh on the ground, blood on the first child’s hands, on the face of the second’s, eyes open but unseeing, Eve sobbing in the scarlet grass, Aziraphale’s fists clenched in fury, something falling from his lips like poison that sounded almost like a question, danger in the voice of the angel, something that could break and please please God or Someone don’t let him ask, stop up the words before they come, don’t let him burn, a child of Earth is gone and it makes no sense but don’t let the angel burn…

Crowley wakes, gasping in the dark, feeling soft hands on his shoulders; he struggles for breath as the touch grounds him.

“I didn’t – I didn’t tell him to –”

“Shh, it’s all right,” says Aziraphale, stroking his cheek.

“I didn’t tell Cain – you know that? Do you know that? I didn’t tell him to…” His eyes, wild and burning, find Aziraphale’s, barely enough light to see him by.

“I know that, my dear. I always knew that.”

“Good.” Crowley leans forward and presses his forehead to Aziraphale’s. Breathes.

When he’s calmer, calm enough to feel the edges of embarrassment, Aziraphale sits back. _Kisses him,_ only for a second, and smiles, like it’s another form of comfort. Which, Crowley supposes, it is. “Ornaments in a few,” he says, letting go of Crowley’s hands (when did he take them?) and going downstairs.

Crowley sits there and collects himself, alone in the room but not feeling alone at all. He follows, pausing by Aziraphale’s small museum of curiosities to appreciate it anew. He still hasn’t asked about that. He wants to. He usually isn’t this bad at asking. Maybe he’s scared of the answer.

The tree is positively resplendent, with lights and garlands and its beautiful crimson-white skirt, not to mention the star at the top. (Crowley is proud of that one. And he doesn’t have to categorize his pride on a Hell report, which is good, because miracling a sentimental gift to make an angel smile might also count as some sort of blessed virtue.)

Aziraphale has stopped near the door, standing still in a way that usually indicates unhappiness.

“Everything okay?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale turns, distraught. “It’s _raining_ ,” he says, with rather more dismay than the situation demands.

There have been a few of these rainshowers of late, and the forecast calls for more. Freezing, driving deluges that make Crowley yearn for Tadfield, where a certain hellion guarantees pleasant weather. As much as he hates cold, Crowley would prefer a little picturesque Christmas snow to whatever’s going on outside right now. “So? Wh – oh, you wanted to go ornament shopping.”

“I suppose we could brave it,” says Aziraphale, not at all bravely. “But it does look frightful.”

“I think we could come up with some ornaments of our own. Between the two of us.”

“I told you, I only have a couple, and I don’t imagine you have more than –”

Crowley does one of his finger wiggles. Very meaningfully.

A long hesitation, then Aziraphale sighs. “Oh, all right. Just don’t _steal_ them. We’re doing this the proper way. Whole cloth.”

Crowley winks. “No promises.” And he walks over to the tree before Aziraphale can muster a reply.

Aziraphale goes first. With a snap, he puts in a decent range of filler ornaments – long, twirling things spread evenly around the tree, ranging in color from clear to white to silver.

Crowley considers it for a moment, then performs a snap of his own, bringing up half a dozen more. His are rainbow, and they spin of their own volition.

“Really?” Aziraphale levels a look at him.

“You think you can do better?”

“Certainly less… _sensational._ ”

“What, are they too frivolous?” Crowley grins. “Too _dishonorable?”_

Aziraphale winces. “Oh, please don’t.” But the reference is out there now, and they’re both thinking of the man from whom they heard those words.

Oliver Cromwell’s opposition to Christmas celebrations wasn’t his worst trait, but it was one of the most poignantly annoying. Crowley first got assigned to him smack in the middle of a Christmas ban that stretched from 1647 to 1660, past the death of the man himself. Puritans were one of those things Aziraphale and Crowley could both easily agree to dislike. Sure, there was lots of opportunity for fomenting, for stirring up suppressed desires until they boiled over, but they boiled over so _rarely_ and _grotesquely;_ Crowley vastly preferred the Victorians’ form of repression, when the time came, and they weren’t nearly so austere about their revelries, their fashion, or their liquor. Aziraphale, for his part, chafed at their claims about God’s meaning and intent, not to mention the severe dive in culinary quality.

So it was that Crowley found himself miserable in Oliver Cromwell’s company. Fresh from years of atrocities in Ireland that Crowley could do little about*, Cromwell took to politics and oppressive legislation with such a flare that Crowley wondered what was left for him to do. The other demons were quick with suggestions, but most would lead to Cromwell’s immediate death, dismemberment, or arrest, which wouldn’t do much for Hell in the long run. Satan knew that, even if nobody else but Crowley did. (Nobody except Aziraphale, who was by now a master at picking up Crowley’s assignments – they’d designed some of the more clever curses and temptations together, during their secret late nights, in between an equal number of ingeniously astonishing blessings.)

* _It’s not that Crowley_ can’t _set foot in Ireland. It’s just, well, extremely uncomfortable. And attempting to shift to his serpent form is a one-way ticket into the sea. He has never precisely_ admitted _that he was personally there to antagonize St. Patrick, but Aziraphale finds ways to bring up the subject all the same, immersing himself with unangelic (and, frankly, unEnglish) glee in a certain shamrocky Day bearing the name of the aggressor._

When Crowley organized an illicit Christmas party in the middle of the ban, the sowing of discord formed a very small portion of his motive. Annoying Cromwell took up about ninety percent.

Aziraphale was in the role of a goodwife that Christmas, which earned him Crowley’s sympathy. All that women-can’t-speak-in-church rot. Though it did make it something of a delight to see him there in someone’s back garden, even more prim and proper than usual in the midst of all that wild revelry. Crowley was taking a break from the raucousness behind a decorated tree when he spotted him.

_“Angel,”_ he said, probably grinning too wide, but this had been his first opportunity for proper booze in months, and by Satan, he’d taken it.

_“Ah, the riots are your doing, then,”_ said Aziraphale with carefully manufactured disapproval.

Crowley was thrilled. _“There’s riots?”_

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but Crowley knew he wasn’t angry. _“All over the city. Probably in others, too. In absolute violation of the ban.”_

_“You didn’t care about the ban when we were wassailing,”_ Crowley teased. He noticed he was leaning in close, closer than they usually stood, but he wasn’t troubled enough to correct it.

_“I didn’t know it was banned then!”_ Aziraphale’s eyes went wide and Crowley couldn’t help but laugh.

_“Yeah, right good for stirring up trouble, isn’t it? A rule everybody hates…”_

_“So the_ ban _was your doing.”_

_“Nope! … Probably did the riots, though. Took off better than I ever dreamed.”_

Aziraphale seemed torn between maintaining judgment and focusing on the plate of food in Crowley’s hand. A plate that he had in _no way_ assembled solely because he had made sure to slip the details of the party to a certain angel, knowing he’d show. _“Not following the fast, either, I see,”_ Aziraphale said wistfully.

_“C’mon, angel, you can’t really be in favor of the_ fasting _.”_

_“It is the law.”_ And there it was, the hint of doubt in Aziraphale’s voice, the little invitation.

_“But ’s not the_ Law _, is it?”_ Crowley said, trusting Aziraphale to pick up on the capital ‘L.’ _“You heard these ridiculous things they’re doing in the name of the Lord? I mean, they’ve always done, but right now – I feel like it’s worse than normal.”_

Aziraphale’s mouth twisted in sympathy. Crowley got distracted by it briefly and allowed himself a moment before looking away – perks of the sunglasses. (How had he ever survived all those years in the desert without being able to let his eyes roam over Aziraphale as they pleased?)

_“Anyway, new chef from France lives up there –”_ Crowley gestured up at the house. _“Can’t decide whether he’s done right by the fricassee. Humans’re having an awful row over it.”_

Aziraphale peeked out past the tree at the visible humans, who were all sloshed, friendly, and having nothing remotely resembling a row.

Crowley waved a hand. _“You missed it. Anyway, I don’t see what the big deal is about whether he’s put too much onion. Not like it makes a difference.”_

Thus baited, Aziraphale glanced between him and the plate. _“Doesn’t make a difference?”_

_“All tastes the same anyway, doesn’t it? ’S stew, all just sort of… melts together.”_

Aziraphale sniffed at this grave insult and lifted a hand imperiously. _“Give here, dear boy. You simply need a more refined palate.”_

Crowley handed the plate over gladly. Aziraphale picked up the spoon from its dish and selected a sampling. Raised it to his mouth. His eyes closed as he savored it, giving a small hum before he swallowed. Crowley just watched, every nerve alight.

Aziraphale’s eyes opened back up and he said with a genuine smile, _“Not too much onion at all. It’s fantastic.”_ He took a second spoonful.

Crowley couldn’t help the warm glow in his chest, even though it was ridiculous – it wasn’t as if he’d made the dish himself. And yet… this wasn’t something Aziraphale had bought or ordered. This was something Crowley had arranged to be served (hunting down the best chef in the city) and selected from the options at the table, _for_ Aziraphale, and kept ready and waiting for him, and was permitted to talk him into trying. Aziraphale’s approval did something squishy to him that he’d spent his entire existence trying not to examine too closely.

Aziraphale moved on to one of the small cakes as he circled the tree, examining the ornaments. _“These are beautiful.”_

_“See? It’s Christmas. It’s meant to be all… you know.”_ Crowley wasn’t about to say the word _beautiful_ or any of its blessed cousins. _“Humans like it. Been doing it for thousands of years. If anything, it’s the ban that’s causing chaos.”_

_“Perhaps,”_ said Aziraphale. He lifted a simple ornament of wood and metal on his palm. _“I must confess I don’t quite see how any of this is meant to… oh, how did they phrase it…”_

Crowley followed him, moved behind him, leaned in even closer than before. Close enough for Aziraphale’s scent to tantalize his human(-ish) tongue. _“Give liberty to carnal and sensual delightsss?”_ he quoted in his most affecting tone.

He didn’t _think_ he was imagining how Aziraphale shivered. But the reply was prompt, and Aziraphale’s voice steady: _“Yes. Quite.”_

_“Such excess is a dishonor to God,”_ came a voice from behind them, and it was Oliver _bloody_ Cromwell.

Crowley briefly contemplated homicide, but instead put on the bright expression that he calculated would cause maximum possible irritation. _“Ollie! You’ve come to join us! How’s the holiday treating you?”_

Aziraphale had moved the plate low, by his hip, as if he felt awkward hiding it behind his back but reluctant to set it down altogether. Crowley grabbed a cherry* off it and popped it in his mouth.

* _He swallowed it stem and all, which was one of two inflammatory things he could do with it. The other thing was remarkably quick when done with a forked tongue and he was waiting for a good moment to use it on Aziraphale – alone. Eating just the cherry part like a normal person was, of course, never an option._

_“They’re practically rioting in the streets,”_ Cromwell said, making a good show of disbelief. Crowley didn’t buy it for a second. Such a seasoned statesman knew more about human nature than he let on.

_“’S one night, c’mon. Relax. Have a drink.”_

Cromwell drew himself up. _“I know you’re not from here, Crowley, and you’ve been valuable, but you must learn to adhere to the rules. They are what separates us from chaos. Anarchy.”_ His expression was earnest, at least, and Crowley could sort of understand why humans found his arguments convincing.

_“And you think God doesn’t want us to have a good time on Christmas?”_

_“The mere existence of a festival on this day harkens to a time of flagrant debauchery,”_ he said, at which Aziraphale and Crowley shared a look, having been around during that time to which it harkened. He wasn’t wrong. _“If you are to observe it well, spend it in pious contemplation. The best course is always that which honors the Lord.”_

Crowley spent a good moment just appreciating the phrase _flagrant debauchery,_ leaving a gap in the conversation. Aziraphale filled it: _“And celebration doesn’t honor the Lord?”_

Cromwell’s eyes flicked over to Aziraphale, then up and down him with confusion and judgment. Probably Aziraphale had again forgotten he was in the role of a woman. For all his commitment to character otherwise, that detail always seemed to trip him up.

_“Only,”_ Aziraphale continued, _“I imagine_ some _of it had to make it in the Bible, yes? – the festivities, the dedications of temples, the birth of Jesus Christ. Traditionally, music, dancing, food, and other such celebrations have always been a way of honoring the Lord. I can’t imagine She gave humans the capacity for such joy but didn’t mean for them to use it.”_

Cromwell paused; there were several odd things within that speech to process. Personally, Crowley was fond of Aziraphale referring to humans as _them_ , although God as _She_ was a close second. He doubted it was even particularly on purpose. _“These are frivolous things,”_ Cromwell said finally, _“that shame and dishonor the Lord. They must be cast aside. And I must go see what I can do about these transgressions.”_

_“Dishonor the Lord? Oh, I very much doubt that.”_ Aziraphale sucked on a spoonful of jelly and Crowley wanted to – embrace him, compliment him. Kiss him. Marry him? That wasn’t a thing. (But it _was,_ ever since Crowley attended the very first wedding and imagined himself with an angel in the couple’s place.)

Cromwell glanced between the two of them, then focused in on Crowley. _“You would do well to control her. You have been a friend to me, but there are limits to permissible behavior.”_ And he left before either of them had to muster a response.

_“Frivolous things,”_ Crowley mocked, and they both fell into giggles.

Now, thus inspired, Crowley waves a hand and miracles up the wood-and-metal ornament from that tree. He doesn’t _think_ he steals it, but can’t bring himself to care much either way.

Aziraphale smiles. “If you’re aiming for frivolous, I think you can do better than that.” He snaps and something new appears: a peacock, with wide sapphire eyes and silver filigree and legs of real gold.

_“Really_ hope you stole that one,” Crowley says. “They’ll think someone broke into the palace.”

To be fair, the first year of Victoria’s tree was less creative – impressive, with loads of candles, but not very much variety. By 1850, Crowley had worked his way close to the family and begun suggesting improvements. But it was Aziraphale who kicked off the worst of it, and he hadn’t even meant to do it, supposedly. _“I just think some variety would be nice,”_ he said, _“to really complement the environment.”_ And he waved to the opulence of the palace room. They’d started with their baubles of hand-blown glass and only got more outrageous from there. Crowley watched it intensify year by year, gleefully imagining if Cromwell could see the state of Christmas in Britain now.

“I think you’re entitled to it anyway,” Crowley continues. “It’s your fault they exist in the first place.”

“Aren’t you the one who placed that image of the first one in the paper?”

“C’mon, I _have_ to support Christmas trees.”

“Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. Evergreens were one of your experiments.”

Crowley blinks. “I… didn’t think you knew that.”

“Eve told me,” Aziraphale says quietly. “I might have known anyway. The look on your face when you saw your first Paradise tree…”

And Crowley remembers that, of course, standing outside a German church and wishing he could go nearer. The tree sat next to a wooden pyramid, both decorated with candles. Apples hung from the branches. A passing human explained (with some confusion as to the reason for his interest) that it was meant to represent the Garden of Eden for their play. Crowley’s heart clenched as he imagined Eve’s smile if she could see it now. Apparently it had all paid off, his centuries of telling anyone who would listen about Eve’s first tree. It was always difficult to tell which additions to Biblical lore would take off and which would be dismissed. The humans had forgotten where it came from, but it turned up in their Eden play anyway. Sure, it took the place of the original tree, the _‘Don’t Touch’_ -sign tree, but the decorations grew more and more Eve-like with each passing year.

Eve would be delighted. Crowley wondered, not for the first time, if she had been allowed into Heaven. He had to believe she was. Could never forgive himself otherwise. And although Aziraphale wasn’t allowed to visit Heaven’s human souls any more than Crowley had access to Hell’s, he couldn’t rid himself of the hope that one day he might meet her again, and tell her of Christmas trees.

Aziraphale caught Crowley staring at the Paradise tree, so Crowley pivoted quickly to teasing him about the apples. _“Dare you to take a bite,”_ he said, which only earned him an eyeroll. Later he would catch a version bedecked in their white candy canes and grin, and hope that Aziraphale, too, had seen one, wherever he was at the moment.

Crowley considers manifesting white candy canes for the tree, but if he has to watch Aziraphale eat another one he really _will_ discorporate. Especially now that kissing him is apparently on the table.

“I’m sure the look on my face was properly demonic.” He manifests an apple instead, hanging from a branch near the top. Then he sees Aziraphale’s expression. “It’s not _the_ apple,” he says, exasperated but fond.

“I know that,” Aziraphale says in the tone of someone who very much had not known that.

From there follows a flurry of miracled ornaments, each more elaborate than the last, until the poor tree* nearly sags under their weight. Crowley gives it a quick blessing to stand strong under the pressure and mutters, “Don’t get spoiled, now. Just can’t have you collapsing in front of the angel.”

* _The tree, for its part, is absolutely thrilled. It always wanted shiny things and now it’s surrounded by more shiny things than it ever dreamed of. It feels a kinship with Aziraphale, who is also a collector, and would get on similarly well with Eve were they ever to meet. Crowley loves them, all three of his magpies, and for very different reasons won’t tell any of them._

Aziraphale looks up from where he is shaping a tiny star – not something with five points, but something burning. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” says Crowley quickly, and then: “Are you trying to make a real star?”

Aziraphale looks down at his handiwork, woeful. “Certainly trying. It isn’t easy, is it? And I’m not working on even near the scale you did.”

“Nah, ’s easier bigger, the more you compress it the more it tries to explode. Lemme see.” Crowley spins up a small galaxy-thing of his own while Aziraphale stabilizes the star for transfer. It isn’t actually a galaxy, of course, but it’s made of stardust, and it’s got the spiraled arms, and if one looks closely one gets the sense there are finer details all the way down, down to the scale of atoms. One would be right to think so. He affixes it to the (increasingly confused but contented) tree and takes the suggestion of a star from Aziraphale’s hand. “Like this, you’ve just got to…”

He looks down, hair falling in a curtain around his face as he pinpoints the entirety of his focus on the small piece of possibility. Matter flows from his vibrating hands in golden streams, giving the thing more and more solidity, making it shift and spin as he molds it, pulling more and more from the firmament.

Aziraphale’s right – he isn’t used to it so tiny. But he can’t admit that. Same principles, right? He just has to – well, it’s gone a bit wibbly-wobbly now, and the colors are changing faster than he can track, but that’s fine – it’s a lot of _stuff_ in his hands but it’s _starstuff,_ which he can handle, it just needs –

“Crowley…” It’s a warning, and Crowley glances up, and the shop has gone a bit funny, the air around them strange, something shaking apart –

Crowley wrenches his hands away and sends the star somewhere far from them, possibly to another galaxy, somewhere it can become whatever it’s becoming in peace. Everything settles back to normal.

“You were saying something about exploding?” Aziraphale’s voice is mild but he’s clutching the bookshelf behind him for support.

“Would’ve been fine,” Crowley says, because he has to, no matter how close he just came to spinning up a black hole on the surface of planet Earth.

“Yes, quite. I think we’ve done enough, don’t you?” The words are harsh, but mitigated by the way Aziraphale is looking at the tree, like it’s perfect the way it is now. Crowley looks, too. It’s very _them_ – a vast array of increasingly improbable designs, Aziraphale’s in golds and whites and blues, Crowley’s in reds and greens and silvers. There’s a carousel, moving on its own, with tiny painted horses; a window of stained glass that shifts with the sky (or Aziraphale’s eyes, but Crowley mentioned the weather for plausible deniability); a far-too-present snake motif that Aziraphale is more than half responsible for. The wooden nativity stands in a place of honor, the shepherd with an added glowing halo, the snake with bright golden eyes.

The tree _is_ perfect (though Crowley will never tell it that). Or… almost perfect. “One more?” he says softly, and Aziraphale must pick up on something in his tone, because he stands up from the shelf and watches in anticipation.

Crowley clears a space, first, a quick thought moving one of the filler ornaments from a front and central position to somewhere at the back. He glances at Aziraphale, knowing how much this will give him away, hoping it’s all right. And then he spins something from the past into his own hands so that he can hang it himself.

As he does the hanging, Aziraphale is quiet beside him, and it’s only when he finishes and goes to stand beside him that Aziraphale speaks:

“Oh, my dear,” he says, a mirror of all the sentiment Crowley can’t bring himself to voice.

He _did_ steal this one from the past, because it hurt to think of leaving it there. The silver chain with their two feathers on it, intertwined, shining white and raven’s black. It didn’t belong there without them, on the tree of that past after they had left it, after Cain put an end to the simple happiness they’d built there. It belongs here, where they’re building another life for themselves, more complex but with no less happiness for it.

Crowley wonders, for a moment, what else he could steal. It’s always been more difficult to miracle more complex living things – that’s why they can transport objects across cities and the Bentley across blocks but not full humans and certainly never themselves, thus all the nonsense with the gates. Teleportation has never been among their abilities. Still, he has to wonder what he could get away with through this gap in time. If he could write a letter for a grieving young mother and stuff it in an ornament to send back, where she would find it the next winter when she needed it most. If he could pull something larger back – if he tried hard enough – if he used his vast imagination, his personal superpower – maybe it could be enough to lift from time an infant, one fated to die at the hands of a brother who thought only animals were vulnerable to death and learned too late that he was wrong. He can nearly feel the child in his hands now, thinking about it. Can nearly write the letter, at least, in his mind.

But his body goes cold at the knowledge of _danger,_ the knowledge that no matter how absent She might be these days, God would never allow such a thing. Perhaps she wouldn’t punish him. But she would make certain it could never happen in the first place.

So he puts his arm through Aziraphale’s and looks at their feathers together, this proof that they have always belonged together, since the very beginning of time.

Aziraphale rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder.

“I always thought,” Aziraphale says eventually, “that they went well together.”

“Surprised mine didn’t burn yours up.”

“I think we both know better than that by now, don’t we?” Aziraphale turns to him and their faces are so close that Crowley is thoroughly distracted.

“Aziraphale,” he says, because he can’t help it, “can I –”

“Always,” murmurs Aziraphale, and Crowley kisses him again.

He doesn’t make it a long one, because he is so scared he will lose control of himself, push Aziraphale up against a bookshelf and whisper things he isn’t sure he’s meant to say. As Aziraphale’s mouth moves under his own, some animal part of him snarls that this is _his angel,_ has been since the moment he caught him eating strawberries in the moonlight, and he will do whatever it takes to keep him. Their hands are tangled together and Aziraphale squeezes tight. He is so soft and warm that Crowley could wrap around him forever and never be done, wants to crawl up against him and exist like a part of him until the end of time.

His tongue forks dramatically without his intent, patches of scales rising along his throat and between his fingers, which would be humiliating except Aziraphale just makes a pleased sound and pulls him closer. His more human tongue is testing the points of Crowley’s fangs, something Crowley has a lot of questions about, but he’ll think about that later. For now he just scrapes his teeth across Aziraphale’s bottom lip in a way he knows will elicit more of those noises. (And it’s _insane,_ that he knows this about Aziraphale now, that he knows how to play the angel like a beloved instrument, that he might be able to broaden his knowledge in the future to more of him, uncovering parts of his angel until he knows all of them better even than himself.)

He pulls back sooner than he wants. (To be fair, what he wants is _never,_ because he is a greedy thing and nothing of this angel will ever be enough.) He lets himself _wonder._

Could Aziraphale love him?

Crowley thought he’d talked himself out of hoping, but recent events have shaken his entire understanding. Sure, Aziraphale has said things over the centuries that seem in direct opposition, and wasn’t it just this month that he slammed that final gate down across Crowley’s heart? _There’s nothing I have to say that you don’t already know._ And all the rest, earlier in the summer, about how he knew that what he had to say wasn’t what Crowley wanted to hear, as if he had seen all of Crowley’s secret desires and learned he couldn’t match them. If Aziraphale has felt the same way all this time, there’s been nothing to stop him from saying so since the moment they broke free from Hell and Heaven. But he hasn’t said a word. So Crowley has been so careful to keep himself in check, to stop pushing, to pull himself away when he’s not strong enough to hide what’s in his heart.

But what if this is _new?_

The kissing is new, obviously. And Crowley knows he would go further, even if touching an Aziraphale who doesn’t love him might break him, because _not_ touching Aziraphale would be a thousand times worse. He’ll take it gladly, after hungering for it for millennia. Wants it more than almost anything. If only Aziraphale leads him there, because Crowley cannot dare push on this front, cannot dare presume and cause hurt with this starving jagged thing inside him.

Maybe things have changed for Aziraphale, as their freedom grows. (Maybe the holiday miracles have won him over, which is a laughable thought, but Crowley’s seen stranger things.) Maybe _feelings_ are growing, and if Crowley nurtures them, they could become something more.

He has to know. Asking could ruin the whole thing, true, but Crowley’s never been good at _not_ asking questions. (Nor at not ruining things, he knows.) So he’ll ask whether things are different, now – if they could be, one day. If it’s worth finding that spark in Aziraphale and tending until it becomes something more befitting of Crowley’s inferno. If Aziraphale could _learn_ to love him, after all.

But right now Aziraphale is looking at him with delight, so he won’t do it today.

Today he will tempt Aziraphale to dinner, and make him laugh, and take way too many pictures of their ornaments on the tree, zooming in on the feathers. He will stay in Aziraphale’s bed again, and fall asleep under the glow of a goodnight kiss. He will dream of whatever he likes best, his angel watching over him in the night.

He will let today be perfect, and leave the rest to another day. To tomorrow. Tomorrow, he will ask, and he will take the truth as it comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t planning on doing Eden until later but it just happened, catch me 4k words later staring at a Word document like ooops
> 
> There’s actually a fairly straightforward historical trail from _The fruit in Eden -- > Apples --> Apples on holiday trees --> Those round glass ornaments on Christmas trees today_. I came across a source that said “Round glass Christmas ornaments were inspired by the shape of apples. Apples were the original Christmas ornaments, put on the tree to symbolize the Garden of Eden.” And I screamed. And then I fact-checked, because _really?_ But it’s true! The Christmas colors are ‘red and green’ largely _because_ of Eden apples on the Eden tree in Eden plays. I can’t believe it took me this long into the fic to find that out!
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘carol singing’: Aziraphale and Crowley exert literary influence over Charles Dickens and Washington Irving. In the present, as in the past, Aziraphale enjoys Crowley’s voice when he sings. Crowley asks his question, and it would go so much better if only Aziraphale knew what they were talking about when he answers. But he doesn’t. So it doesn’t.


	18. Carol Singing

Aziraphale stretches the cord on the landline as far as it will go (and then farther) so he can gaze up at their tree while he makes some final arrangements. First Harriet, then Anathema. Harriet sounds busy and grateful; Anathema is calmly cheerful and says something about _And make sure Crowley knows lunch is off tomorrow, there’s plenty of time for him to pay me back in Tadfield,_ which Aziraphale doesn’t understand but agrees dutifully to relay. The plan is for Crowley to drive Aziraphale to the Dowlings’ estate in two days, pick up Warlock, and head straight for Tadfield, where the Youngs are hosting them for the week.

Aziraphale can’t help a small bout of nerves and imagines it must be even worse for Crowley. What will Warlock think of them? Has he missed them? Is he angry with them? How much has he grown? It’s been half a year, which is no time at all by ethereal (and occult) standards but might make all the difference in the world to an eleven-year-old. And how does Warlock know Adam anyway?

When the plan’s settled, Aziraphale stands in front of the tree and continues gazing. It’s such a warm feeling to see this here, laden with their past and present and maybe future, something they made together. Something they can do every year. A Christmas tree is such a _household_ thing, as if they’re part of one together; as if Crowley is already home. Aziraphale can only hope he sees it that way too.

He starts up the stairs and hears the faint strain of a melody from above him, slowing his gait to catch more, moving silently.

Crowley is _singing_.

Aziraphale stops by the doorway to the bedroom, just out of sight, and listens. It’s a rich, gorgeous sound, like everything in Crowley’s voice. And… he’s doing ‘Coventry Carol.’

The minor key is haunting, bringing instant tears to Aziraphale’s eyes. The lyrics are a callback to a dark time – Herod and his massacre of the children. How humans could take something like that and make something beautiful out of it, he will never know, but they did. Humans are so skilled at finding beauty. They have to be, with their lives so short and turmoiled. If only Heaven knew how much there was to learn from them.

Crowley sings quietly, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Aziraphale waits for the end of the song, not wanting to make him stop. When he finally enters, Crowley is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at the bookshelf Aziraphale filled with his hoarded trinkets. So he _did_ see them.

“I’ll never stop being moved by how lovely your voice is,” Aziraphale says softly, sitting beside him.

Crowley looks away, embarrassed.

“It’s a talent, I hope you know that,” he continues. It’s strange how Crowley has always been sensitive about his voice when he embraces other aspects of vanity – his clothes, his cleverness, his cheekbones, those _hips_. But then, a piece of himself is revealed when he sings, something deep from inside him. Maybe it makes sense after all.

“You _have_ to say that. Music’s an angel thing.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. _“Good_ music is not an angel thing, as you’re usually so eager to point out. I like to think my taste has evolved on Earth a bit past _Sound of Music.”_

“Well, it’s certainly not a demon thing.”

“Anyone who thinks that has never heard you sing ‘Music of the Night,’” Aziraphale says, and then blushes. He hadn’t meant to bring that up. They went to see _Phantom of the Opera_ exactly once, and when Crowley sprawled on the sofa that evening singing ‘Music of the Night’ with hooded eyes and a wine-steeped pliability, Aziraphale had nearly discorporated on the spot. Especially when Crowley stood up somewhere around the third verse and moved liquidly over to lean a breath away from Aziraphale’s ear. To this day Aziraphale can’t think of the play without Crowley’s voice creeping in, the _touch me,_ the _let your darker side give in,_ the _only then can you belong to me._ He’s always been far too distracted to see the show again, and he’s refused invitations to two separate castings without ever telling Crowley why.

Crowley laughs with a look like he’s not quite sure what Aziraphale means, and Aziraphale would like to keep it that way. ( _At least for now,_ he thinks treacherously, wondering if he could convince Crowley to do it again.) “Most Christmas music is pretty angelic, anyway. Lots of angels.” Crowley starts counting on his fingers. “‘Angels from the Realms of Glory.’ ‘Angels We Have Heard on High.’ ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing…’”

“You were truly impossible about that,” Aziraphale says, because Crowley was.

“Yeah.” Crowley nods fondly. “Think they all thought I was making a pass at you.” (Aziraphale suppresses a _Weren’t you?)_ “Not that they were surprised. Talk of the room, you, and you’d charmed Irving years back. Thought they were going to kidnap you to keep for American society.”

This is blatantly false, because Crowley was _definitely_ the talk of the room that evening.

It was sometime in the early months of 1842 and they’d both been invited to New York for different reasons. Normally this would have been the perfect time to Arrange for just one of them to go over, but Crowley had begged Aziraphale to come see the sights and Aziraphale couldn’t bear to turn her down. Society in both New York and London was thriving at the time, with plenty of crossover between the two. Crowley and Aziraphale stepped through the gate to North America (which already let out in New York City) and made their way to Sunnyside, the gorgeous estate of Washington Irving.

Aziraphale knew Irving of old, from when Irving needed material for the first 1820 edition of his _Sketch Book_ and couldn’t decide where to start. Aziraphale had a drink with him one evening, brought up the marvelous version of Saint Nicholas in his _History of New York_ (which had gone over splendidly in 1812), and suggested that a little more Christmas spirit wouldn’t go awry. (The state of Christmas still hadn’t recovered from Cromwell’s attacks on it centuries ago.) So Irving published his stories about an idyllic British celebration, and the concept spread in America like wildfire.

Irving invited Aziraphale to the gathering at Sunnyside, but Charles Dickens invited Crowley.

Aziraphale never found out for certain _how_ they’d met, only that they had several spirited discussions about the plight of the working class that evening over dinner. It was lucky everyone at the table had strong opinions about Shakespeare (an idol of Irving and Dickens alike) or the conversation would have grown very difficult to follow.

Crowley fell in love with a particular hoax Irving had pulled in 1809. Irving had put missing person adverts in the paper, along with claims by a hotel that someone had skipped out on their bill, and that if this Mr. Knickerbocker* were not found, the hotel would publish the manuscript he’d left behind. Crowley had enjoyed trying to convince unsuspecting people to offer a real reward for this person who, of course, turned out to be a fictional character when the book released that winter.

* _A dead giveaway as to the falsehood, Aziraphale thought, but when it came to names there was no accounting for American taste._

Aziraphale, for his part, became involved in a deep conversation about Christmas with Dickens, who harbored a bevy of creative thoughts about the meaning of the season and how it might restore some genuine feeling to the rich and heartless in Britain.

 _“It seems to me the greatest problem on the part of the upper class is willful ignorance,”_ Aziraphale said, to which Dickens nodded and apparently drew concept for some truly horrifying imagery in his _Christmas Carol_ – skeletal children called Ignorance and Want, conjured to show his Scrooge the error of his ways. Uncomfortable to read, but perhaps it had some success in moving those who had ’til then clung stubbornly to obliviousness as their shelter.

 _“Oh, they know about it. They just don’t want to_ do _anything about it,”_ Crowley put in, waving her hands in near-violent illustration.

 _“Therein lying the ‘willful’ part,”_ Aziraphale said dryly. This wrung a laugh from their audience, who had been observing their debates like a sport all evening.

Crowley was beautiful that night – she was always beautiful, but extra care had been taken in her rich silken dress (a green so dark it was nearly black), the black lacing along her sleeves to match her fine shawl, the gloves up to her elbows. Tall boots covered black stockings that Aziraphale was positive he wasn’t supposed to be seeing, yet had somehow caught flashes of multiple times. It took tremendous effort to keep his eyes off the slope of her exposed shoulders. Her hair was back in a bun but with curls left down to frame her face, and in it she had again woven several holly berries.

The last party they’d attended had found them under the mistletoe, where he’d been so sorely tempted to kiss her, when he was certain she’d have let him. When she’d called him beautiful, first loudly, then so quietly that only he could hear. When he’d left her there, because what else could he do?

So that night at Sunnyside he allowed himself to be a little closer to her, a little more demonstrative, hoping to ease the hurt he’d caused before. It seemed to be working.

She matched him, action for action, word for word. Of course she matched him. He had always been the one managing the limits on their – friendship. (The first limit being one of generalities, from the time they spent together to the number of humans who knew they were acquainted. All the little things that put them in danger. The second limit being the one they couldn’t speak of – that strange desire he had to touch her, of which he’d been cognizant since Rome. It was silly. Probably a quirk of his corporation. But he had to keep a lid on it all the same.) She smiled in return, and tossed her head back to laugh, and spoke openly of knowing him for years. He didn’t have the heart to stop her. He didn’t _like_ it, of course – _couldn’t_ (and what was this warm feeling inside him?) – but he let it go on, kept up his end, allowed himself not to think of the consequences.

Finally Irving mentioned some new books of carols he’d received, and Crowley lit up. Everyone noticed. (And so what if they only noticed because Aziraphale noticed and they followed his eyes?)

 _“Do you play?”_ asked Dickens. Crowley shook her head.

 _“She sings,”_ said Aziraphale before he could think better of it. Crowley looked at him, her face saying _what are you doing?_ in their vast unspoken language. Aziraphale didn’t know. _It isn’t to tease you,_ he wanted to say, _it’s because I want to hear your voice, it’s because you sing like something mesmerizing, like something ancient and dear –_ but he couldn’t, so he made it a part of their game. _“Like an angel,”_ he added, fully deserving what came next.

She glared at him.

 _“Is that so? Then you must treat us,”_ said Irving.

Aziraphale couldn’t help a small smile. Not a smirk – angels didn’t smirk, so that couldn’t be what he was doing. _“It’s all right if you’re shy,”_ he said, sealing their fates.

Crowley stood dramatically. _“I’d love to sing for you, angel.”_ She paused to squeeze his shoulder as she went by. The humans watched and thought of what a sweet pair they made. Aziraphale finally realized what he’d set in motion, and sighed, aware it was too late to undo now.

The others switched off on piano accompaniment with varying degrees of skill. Crowley flipped through the books in search of songs with the word _angel_ and stressed it just a bit louder whenever she came to it, staring at Aziraphale, who pretended with some difficulty not to notice.

There was a shocking number of songs mentioning angels.

At the others’ admiring reactions, she relaxed into it a bit, and although Aziraphale tried to maintain his resentment, her voice was stunning. And it was nice to see her enjoy herself. If the past couple of months had been difficult, it was because Aziraphale had _made_ them difficult – first by staying away, then by leaving again. He could let her have this night.

She’d dropped the teasing almost entirely by the time she came to ‘The First Noel’ – just one half-hearted angel at the beginning and then she lost herself in the song. A simple movement of notes, the dips in the melody well-suited to her rich lower tones. Her voice changed flavor a bit with the form and role she was using, but the core of it was always the same, and always breathtaking.

The lyrics brought in the shepherds, and the star, and just like that the animosity was gone between them. He was sure they were dwelling on the same memory.

The group broke after that, splitting into different purposes, and he found her sitting on the steps outside, taking in the air.

 _“No verse about a snake,”_ Aziraphale said.

_“Should’ve made one up. Can you imagine how confused they’d be?”_

Despite knowing he shouldn’t encourage it, he couldn’t help but add, _“You could even have changed the book to match,”_ because he knew it would delight her. Which it did.

 _“All right, I know what I’m doing next,”_ she said, standing, and he stopped her. With a hand to her shoulder. Which he promptly dropped, not having meant to do it in the first place.

He didn’t even have anything to _say,_ just wanted to keep her here a moment longer, out under the stars. _“The holly suits your hair,”_ he said finally, and then cursed himself, because that was not the sort of thing they were supposed to do.

Crowley touched her hair, perhaps a little self-consciously. _“You think?”_

He nodded. He couldn’t take it back now, it would wound her so – and anyway, it would be a lie.

She grinned. _“Well, it was either this or live spiders. Decided not to horrify your friend, though.”_

 _“You hate spiders,”_ he pointed out. Which she did; she always made Aziraphale miracle them out of the building.

 _“Everyone hates spiders,”_ she grumbled, but her smile came back a little as she looked at Aziraphale. _“C’mon. Let’s go back in and help them write up their copyright legislation. Cause all sorts of trouble.”_

The _lack_ of copyright was causing enough trouble at the moment as to be practically demonic, and Crowley had listened to their plight over dinner (British presses were fond of stealing Irving’s work, as if it didn’t count just because it happened in America) and gone soft in the eyes. But Aziraphale allowed her the excuse. He offered his arm – because he owed her. Not because he couldn’t help it.

She took it, because it was her job to push at the boundaries. Not because it made her happy. Surely not. (If he thought that, he wouldn’t be able to stop, so he turned his mind away.) And they returned to the party.

Now, sitting with Crowley on his bed, Aziraphale smiles and thinks how silly he was back then. He’d had plenty of motivation to ignore his feelings for Crowley, but still – to not know he loved him! When that love was so vast, so untamable, so brightly visible despite his best attempts at hiding it. He still doesn’t know when it truly began. _If_ it truly began – or if it just grew more and more each year from a smaller version of itself that was always there, a tiny seed planted in Eden.

He should ask Crowley, one day, once Crowley is capable talking about such things. Ask when _Crowley_ realized Aziraphale loved him. It must have been long before the Blitz, although that was the turning point after which Aziraphale became blindingly obvious about it. Crowley is better at social cues and subtleties. At seeing right through people. It was probably evident for millennia. He’s so lucky Crowley is too good (although he can never say it) to ever have tempted him, not _really,_ or he would have given in to the danger long ago.

“Let me?” Aziraphale asks, bringing his hands up to Crowley’s hair, and Crowley bows his head without question. Aziraphale pulls holly berries from his fingertips and settles them in place with a miracle, doubting he could ever replicate the way Crowley would weave them in by hand.

Crowley grabs up a silver mirror from France that sits on the shelf (clearly he has spent time cataloguing its objects, to find it so quickly) and looks it over. “Hey, not bad,” he says, and his hair works itself into braids, capturing the berries where they lie. Aziraphale lets go of the metaphysical tether maintaining their position. Crowley will act like it was an aesthetic choice, but really it was kind of him to remove the weight of the miracle* from Aziraphale’s true-form equivalent of shoulders. “You know they’re poison?”

* _Most tangible miracles require at least a drip of maintenance, on occasion, although this happens at the back of one’s mind and rarely comes up. It takes more power to make them independent, and unless he’s giving something away to a human it’s not worth the bother. Aziraphale only ever noticed a difference when he was suddenly discorporated and returned to find that all his non-permanent bookshop miracles had ended. Luckily the shelves were permanent, and the space expansions and so on, but many of the things on the walls were now things on the floor. At least Adam’s restoration had removed any dents. By comparison, maintaining the placement of berries hovering in Crowley’s hair takes a noticeable effort, partly because Crowley is an occult creature and partly because he is_ constantly _moving his head._

“Of _course_ they’re poison. That does explain why you were always wearing them.”

“Well, and an angel once said they suit me,” says Crowley, with that grin he wears when he’s pretending something serious isn’t serious. “Here.”

He reaches out for Aziraphale’s hair and Aziraphale obliges. The touch of something small appears in Aziraphale’s hair, and then several somethings. Aziraphale reaches for the mirror and Crowley moves it back, for some reason; Aziraphale plucks it away and surveys himself in it.

They’re berries, too, and Aziraphale would dare say they do suit him _,_ a good match with their white color…

Oh. They’re mistletoe berries.

“I just thought, you know, they’re white, okay, they suit you –” Crowley scrambles as Aziraphale pats his hair admiringly. “You weren’t supposed to _look,_ just, it works, right, it –”

“They’re perfect,” Aziraphale says in rescue, and beams at him. Then he leans forward and kisses Crowley, quite forgetting they’re sitting on his bed in the daytime until he’s done it. Before this, the most he’s done with the _bed_ have been those quick goodnight kisses, Crowley sleepy and precious in the dark. He hopes Crowley doesn’t think he’s implying anything this time. He’s _happy_ to imply all manner of things, only Crowley hasn’t seemed ready for that yet.

And really, it’s Crowley’s fault anyway. Only this ridiculous serpent would put mistletoe _on someone’s head_ and not think through the implications.

It only lasts a moment, Aziraphale breathing in the scent of him, before Crowley pulls back, cupping his face.

“Angel…”

He looks conflicted. Aziraphale folds his hands in his lap and waits patiently. “Yes?”

Crowley’s eyes dart away, and it looks almost like a change of subject, though not quite. He’s looking at the shelf with all its treasures. “Why do you have all this stuff?”

Aziraphale looks over as well. It’s a beautiful collection, millennia of _life,_ and Crowley is present in nearly every one. But then, Aziraphale has very few important memories alone. The newest addition are the photographs in the corners – Crowley and Aziraphale in their tacky Christmas jumpers, sitting together, joyful. The photographs just returned from a very nice girl in the shop who agreed to print them for him. (Crowley sent him the _‘file’_ to his _E Mail,_ as he told her proudly.) Aziraphale blushes a bit as he realizes that the middle shelf bears his favorite. The one where he’s turned away from the camera, gazing at Crowley. He adores it, although it’s a little embarrassing to see it through Crowley’s eyes. Aziraphale’s expression in the photograph is completely unguarded and utterly besotted.

Crowley is looking at it too, eyeline clearly targeting that single picture.

“You know what I’m like about collecting things,” Aziraphale says, to answer the question of _why._ “I couldn’t bear to get rid of any of it, over the years. So many exciting times and places! Just _look_ at all the memories. I had locked it all away, of course, in case Gabriel or someone happened across it, but – there isn’t any need for that now, is there?” He turns to Crowley, who finally shakes his stare from the photograph to place it on Aziraphale instead. Aziraphale feels the weight of that stare settle onto him, comfortable and familiar.

“This month has been… it’s been a lot, yeah?”

Aziraphale nods, nervous. He knows he’s been pushing, a bit. But he can’t _not._ He needs to show Crowley how much he means to him.

“And maybe – I don’t know, stressful, at first, not knowing – but then it was. It’s been. I’m _enjoying_ it,” he says finally.

“Me too,” Aziraphale says softly, wishing Crowley would speak in full sentences for once, but knowing it’s difficult for him to say any of this at all.

“And I like what we’re doing. I like this. It’s good.” (This, from Crowley, is an almost unprecedentedly strong endorsement.) “But with everything… You said, way back at the beginning, that you don’t have anything to say I don’t already know.”

Aziraphale nods again, trying to remember the context of that conversation. It’s an innocuous line to take from such a charged moment – he thinks it was part of a speech about all the things he wanted to say to Crowley, when he was ready, and how he knows it’s nothing new but he owes it to Crowley for them to be spoken aloud. He thinks. It was weeks ago now.

“And all these ups and – and downs, I can’t _not_ ask you. Is that still true? Has anything… changed? About the way you – you know.”

“The way I…” Aziraphale takes a long moment to put the pieces together. There are a lot of pieces, and they’re all over the place, but eventually he shapes them up. “The way I feel about you?”

Crowley nods, and it’s frantic. “You can tell me, angel. It’s okay.”

Has anything _changed?_ It’s been _six thousand years_ and he thinks a bit of a turbulent month has _changed_ Aziraphale’s feelings for him? He thinks – and then Aziraphale’s outrage drains as he sees the _look_ in Crowley’s eyes. _He thinks I stopped loving him?_ Aziraphale grabs up both of Crowley’s hands in his own and presses them together tightly. What an impossible idea. “Oh, my _dear,_ nothing’s changed at all. I promise. You are _so_ dear to me and –” Crowley is already shifting uncomfortably at the _dear,_ like always, long before he can get anywhere near _love._ “I know it makes you uncomfortable to talk about these things. It’s not easy for me either,” Aziraphale adds. “But do you think you could stand it if… will you just let me say –”

“No.” Crowley drops his hands and his face shutters. “Just – don’t, okay?”

“Okay,” says Aziraphale, reeling. He’d thought they were making progress. Thought maybe it was time to say something – maybe Crowley was ready. But it’s worse than he thought. _I can be patient for him,_ he reminds himself. Six thousand years, and he can wait six thousand more. Whatever Crowley needs. This is his purpose now, and he’ll meet it gladly. But his mind keeps going, unbidden: _I can be patient for him, but_ why?

“Look, I… I’m going to go back to my flat for a bit,” Crowley says, unheeding of Aziraphale’s sudden sinking, clawing despair. “Maybe the plants need me after all.” He smiles a little, an unexpected humor, both knowing it’s a terrible excuse. “I’ll come back –”

“I’m sorry, Crowley, so sorry, I didn’t mean to – just don’t leave me,” Aziraphale says without meaning to, feeling tears prick his eyes, furious with himself. He’s supposed to give Crowley what he needs, and if he needs space… it shouldn’t matter how Aziraphale feels. But it rises up in him unstoppably, _I can’t do this again,_ not eighty years, not another nine days, not more time spent praying Crowley will come back to him and terrified that he’s gone for good.

Crowley’s face goes soft, seeing something of this in Aziraphale’s eyes, and he takes Aziraphale’s hands again, palms warm over his knuckles. “I won’t, angel. I promise, okay? I just need a little time to – to process. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Aziraphale says, searching for any sign of uncertainty on Crowley’s face, knowing he can trust the promise. Feeling the promise settle into him, safe, something to cling to.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Aziraphale’s sure his smile is blindingly bright. He doesn’t care. Tomorrow? Oh, but he was thinking – just the night, then, they’ve done nights before. It might feel strange not to have Crowley in his bed (how quickly he’s come to rely on it!) but he’ll survive it, get lost in a favorite book, and in the morning they’ll be back together, where they belong. “Oh, yes, please.”

“Good.” Crowley squeezes his hands and lets go, moving like he’s about to stand, and Aziraphale can’t stop himself:

“Does this mean we go back to the way things were?”

Crowley looks at him, and he can’t turn back now.

“I mean… it’s all right, I just – I hate to think of it. That you’ll stop spending nights here, that you’ll put those _dreadful_ glasses back on, that you’ll never…” And he can’t say _kiss me again,_ any more than he can stop his gaze from going to Crowley’s lips.

And those lips smile, absolutely delighted. There is an untempered joy in Crowley’s eyes at his words, and to think it’s so _simple_ to please him, that all it takes is a request to keep doing all the things he’s ever wanted. “I don’t want to stop,” Crowley says, and leans forward. Kisses him once, softly. “I like this. The way we are. Anything you want, angel, you _know_ that.”

“I don’t want you doing things just because it’s what _I_ want.” It’s one of Aziraphale’s biggest fears, and it feels so good to say it out loud. (Honestly. Just _saying_ things is so cathartic! Crowley should really try it sometime.)

“Then it’s a good thing I want it too,” says Crowley, voice darkening into molasses, and Aziraphale is so ready to be kissed again. He was _right,_ all those years, in thinking that tone was flirtation, because Crowley never uses it these days without kissing him straight after. It clearly takes effort for Crowley to pull away and stand, but he does – and then he’s bending back down like he’s on a magnet, pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s once more. Aziraphale is dizzy with it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He turns to walk away, stopping by the shelf for a long moment, turning back in the doorframe.

“Aziraphale… is it terribly stubborn of me if I don’t give up?”

“You never give up. Not when it’s important,” Aziraphale says with a smile. “That’s one of my favorite things about you.”

And Crowley looks so _happy_ at that, lighting up from the inside with such euphoria that Aziraphale knows it will be worth the wait. He can help Crowley struggle with his difficulties, his _demons,_ because Crowley won’t give up until they’re beaten and he’s ready to be together at last. They’ll be there for each other every step of the way, because that’s who they are. “Then I won’t,” Crowley says.

“Good,” Aziraphale answers fiercely, and the warmth of it carries over even after Crowley has gone, after he’s left alone to figure out what to do with himself for a night without his serpent.

Crowley is nervous about Warlock, he knows that. Tomorrow is the last day before the day they will see him. Aziraphale gathers all his bits of knowledge from over the years on how to calm Crowley’s nerves, and when he stands, ready to put his thoughts in motion, he notices a gap on the bookshelf.

The photograph. That image of Aziraphale looking at Crowley, far past fond, so in love it hurts to witness.

Crowley took it with him.

And Aziraphale smiles now, probably with a very similar expression on his face as he thinks of it tucked in Crowley’s pocket, of Crowley wanting to keep it, of Crowley looking at it in the night when they’re apart.

They’ll work through it soon, because they belong together, and Crowley’s not giving up. Neither of them will.

It’s only a matter of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it through – that was the lowest point of angst in the entire fic! Fluff coming next!!! And they will never sleep in different beds again from here on out, for the rest of their lives. (Probably one of them would have to go on some trip alone in the next thousand years but let’s be honest, Crowley would just not sleep until Aziraphale came back to him, because he’s a dramatic bitch with a newfound case of love-induced insomnia.)
> 
> I would sell my soul for David Tennant to sing Coventry. Please listen [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_jIYyPOoEc8), it’s so good! (If he ever did Music of the Night I really would discorporate. I would invent discorporation for humans and then I would do it.)
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘holiday movies’: Aziraphale goes over to Crowley’s bearing gifts with a plan to take his mind off their upcoming meeting with Warlock. The plan involves watching _Miracle on 34th Street_ in pyjamas while eating tremendous amounts of nearly raw quiche. They reminisce over film sets, and Aziraphale finally asks Crowley to return a favor with regards to the state of his wings.


	19. Holiday Movies

Crowley was so certain he would lie awake all night, but he woke this morning with no memory of falling asleep. More refreshed than he usually feels after a night in his flat – maybe some residual effect of sleeping in Aziraphale’s presence. It still wasn’t _as_ good a night’s sleep as he gets in the bookshop, but he’ll take it. And he’ll go back to sleeping at the shop tonight, because Aziraphale _wants_ him to stay.

He got up as soon as he woke to brew a cup of coffee and make his way to the sofa*, where he sits now, contemplating. There’s quite a lot to contemplate.

* _A sofa that didn’t exist until he panicked on his way over to make biscuits with Aziraphale. Aziraphale never took advantage of his brand-new soft furnishings (there was an armchair as well, since this was before their kissing phase and Crowley didn’t want to make assumptions about personal space). Crowley vanished everything except the sofa and then conceded it might be nice to lie there while angsting or watching_ Golden Girls. _He made it in a charcoal grey tartan, initially to please Aziraphale without entirely compromising his flat’s décor, and kept it that way because… well. It reminds him of Aziraphale, is there something wrong with that?_

He hadn’t known for sure whether he would raise the question until he saw that photograph in Aziraphale’s little museum – a photograph he hadn’t noticed when he sent them off, Select-All-ing without taking time to peruse. He brings it out now from the pocket of his black silk dressing gown. Aziraphale’s face is so soft in it, gazing at him, the same look he gets now when he’s about to kiss him. And there’s something _powerful_ in his expression. Crowley thought –

Well. He thought it would be worth asking, at least, whether Aziraphale had started getting feelings for him.

And it broke his heart, the answer, _nothing’s changed._ He should still be broken. And yet…

Aziraphale’s complete devastation when he said _don’t leave me._ Aziraphale’s longing when he asked Crowley to keep staying the night, to keep kissing him. And then, when Crowley did the stupid thing of asking if it was okay to not give up, to keep vying for Aziraphale’s affections – the resolve on Aziraphale’s face when he said it _was,_ and it was one of his _favorite_ things about Crowley, and it was _good._

Crowley has never felt he has permission for much of anything he does, nor for who he is. He’s tried to act like he doesn’t need it. But it’s always felt good to have an angel telling him it’s all right, you can come closer, come into my life, I permit you. And now he has full permission to _pursue_ Aziraphale. (Aziraphale would say _court,_ which is ridiculous but honestly not far off the mark.)

He won’t go too fast, but he doesn’t need to hide anymore. It’s all out in the open. Aziraphale knows (of course he’s always known), and isn’t disgusted, and wants to keep kissing him, and wants him not to give up.

So maybe Aziraphale, too, feels what Crowley feels when he looks at that photograph: a hunch that the potential is there, fertile ground for love to grow.

Crowley _loves_ that photograph, maybe third of anything behind Aziraphale and the Bentley, because he’s never had evidence before. Sometimes he’s thought he’s seen something in Aziraphale’s face, or heard something in his tone, but Aziraphale’s expressions change and fade so quickly, and whenever he would approach it Aziraphale would shut him down. He was never completely sure of what he saw, and he’d always talk himself out of the memory. But this – this doesn’t change, this image of Aziraphale gazing at him and feeling something powerful. He can look at it all day and it will still be _real._

So the potential is there. He’s sure of it, and Aziraphale didn’t disagree. The obvious solution is for Crowley to devote himself to showing how much of a good husband he’ll be. (Would be. Yeah, no, will be.)

He sits there and looks at the photograph, letting this piece of Aziraphale sink into him. It calms the nerves he’s been cultivating over tomorrow. At least Aziraphale will be by his side when he sees Warlock – when Warlock sees _him_. When Warlock decides whether he’s had enough, whether to keep Crowley in his life or reject him for good. (For good, literally for _good_ , for the good of Warlock and the rejection of evil.)

Crowley wouldn’t blame him. Three cryptic texts (two cryptic texts and one desperate cry for acknowledgement, really) – what kind of a departure is that? Sure, he didn’t want to yank Warlock into Armageddon along with him, but… he could have done _something._ At the time he couldn’t think of anything that definitely wouldn’t make it worse, and he has a talent for making things worse, but still. Something. Before the days crept by and made it too late.

He runs his thumb across Aziraphale’s image, along his cheek, over his hair. Breathes. He’ll be fine. He’ll go over to the bookshop today – but he’s a wreck right now and he knows it, maybe best to wait until evening. Prove himself to Aziraphale when he can put his best foot forward. _If._ If he can calm down at all, with tomorrow looming. What is he supposed to do with himself all day? Pace, try and fail to concentrate on the telly, try and fail to sleep? He can get some good discipline in with the plants but even at a stretch that won’t take more than an hour.

It’s just him, then. Crowley, alone with his nerves and his fear. Well. Maybe, at the least, he can use the day to figure out how to win Aziraphale’s love. And is it sad that he misses Aziraphale already?

He’s still turning the photograph over and over, plotting (certainly not just pining), when a knock comes at the door.

Crowley frowns and goes to answer it, not sure why a human would bother him after all these years of solitude but not sure why a demon or angel out for punishment or revenge would knock.

It’s Aziraphale, of course, holding a large bowl and a carton of liquid, with something flat tucked under his arm. “Ah, hello, my dear!” he says, smiling, eyes lighting up at just the sight of Crowley. See? He can work with this.

“Hi,” Crowley answers, going for smooth and missing it by a mile. Needing something to do, he quickly takes the carton and bowl from Aziraphale’s hands and sets them on the coffee table.

It’s been centuries since people here greeted each other with a kiss on the mouth, and as an angel and demon they always avoided it between the two of them, but Crowley thinks he has enough standing now to pull it off, so he does. Keeps it brief – no need to overwhelm. Aziraphale seems pleased.

“Why did you knock, anyway?” Crowley asks. “Should be set to let you in.”

“I realized I didn’t actually tell you I was coming over. I didn’t want to intrude.”

Crowley sprawls on the sofa and gestures for Aziraphale to take the other end. “You’re always welcome here. You know that.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Aziraphale sits and just smiles at him for a long moment (hasn’t stopped smiling) before appearing to have some realization. “Oh! Here, I brought… these are the last of the madeleines, we can make more today, if you like? For Warlock. And this is a quiche, I managed to interrupt the cooking process at the restaurant so it should be fairly raw, and eggnog, which I barely cooked at all, you’ll forgive me if I don’t drink much of it myself. And I found a film! I know you said you can get more in the river, but I thought we might start with this, if you’re amenable?”

Crowley processes this bit by bit, his heart squeezing joyfully. One day into his good-husband scheme and Aziraphale is beating him at his own game. He pictures Aziraphale somehow storming into a restaurant kitchen and stealing a quiche – _It’s for my snake husband_ probably wouldn’t work as an excuse. (He’s sure Aziraphale paid, but that was probably the least of the chef’s concerns.) And then, did he just imply making the eggnog himself? Also, who uses the word _amenable,_ just like that? (Aziraphale, that’s who. Crowley has no business finding it cute and yet, of course, does.) And then – “Sorry, when you say river, do you mean stream?”

Aziraphale waves a hand. “I suppose. You know.”

There is always at least a fifty percent chance Aziraphale is having him on about these things, and he will never, never admit it. Crowley debates the pros and cons of calling him on it. But then he’ll just have a pouting angel on his hands – he’d rather take the hit to his pride by pretending to believe him. “Sure, there’s lots of films we can _stream,_ but let’s see what you’ve brought to start.”

Aziraphale turns the DVD around. It’s _Miracle on 34th Street_ – the original from 1947.

“You’ve seen it?” Crowley asks, excitement plain in his voice.

“No, not yet. But it says _miracle._ I thought it apropos?”

 _Apropos,_ he thinks, and grins at his ridiculous angel, and says, “’S perfect. You’ll love it. Put it in.”

(And then he has to explain what to put in where, which is its own adventure, but eventually they manage.)

The menu comes up on the screen. (Crowley doesn’t own a remote – he just glares at the telly until it does what it’s meant to.) Aziraphale focuses in with polite anticipation, sitting with annoyingly perfect posture at the front edge of the sofa. Crowley sighs. “You can’t wear that.”

Aziraphale looks down at his usual clothes and then back up, offended. “And why not?”

“No, look, it’s – c’mon, look at me.” Crowley gestures down his silk dressing gown, which is closed, and then with a thought manifests a proper pyjama top to go with the bottoms he’s wearing, just in case the gown comes open. Wouldn’t want to scandalize the angel with a bare chest. (Yet.) “If we’re having a day in watching telly, let’s make it cozy. Relax. What you’ve got on, ’s not nearly soft enough for this.”

“I don’t own _pyjamas,”_ Aziraphale says as if it’s a foreign word. “I don’t sleep.”

“Yeah, but it’s still nice for, you know, lounging about.” Aziraphale opens his mouth, probably to say _I don’t lounge,_ so Crowley heads him off: “Oh! I know. You’ve got that – that one with the cable knit, the jumper, it’s sort of cream-colored? Not the holiday one, for Someone’s sake –”

“Oh, yes. This?” He snaps and he’s in the jumper; no change in trousers, but a sudden lack of shoes, just the brown woolen socks on his feet.

“Much better,” says Crowley. He drapes himself across the couch until his arm reaches around Aziraphale’s back, Crowley’s chin on his shoulder. “See? Cozy.”

Aziraphale is supposed to be irritated by this but just seems indulgent. “I suppose that was your motive,” he says. “Turning me into a blanket.” But he’s smiling.

“Pillow,” Crowley corrects, and the film begins.

Crowley uses the opening credits to snuggle into Aziraphale’s side properly. Aziraphale leans back and lets him, even putting an arm around him so Crowley can get closer. It’s lucky that Crowley’s already seen the film so he can spend it watching Aziraphale’s face.

The dialogue begins, the old man who thinks he’s Santa (and might be) giving constructive criticism over a reindeer display in a shop window.

“No Rudolph,” Aziraphale points out. He’ll be sore about those reindeer names for eternity.

“More’s the pity,” says Crowley, ignoring the look he gets in return.

He brings over the quiche during their commentary about the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, intending to take a few bites, and looks down ten minutes later to realize he’s eaten nearly half of it. Aziraphale is watching him with a pleased expression. “Is it good?”

“’S eggy.” Crowley offers a spoon to Aziraphale, who shakes his head. “It’s perfect,” Crowley says. “I’ve got loads of food in the fridge, want anything? There’s a raspberry torte that can’t quite be out of date, from that café-ish place two blocks down.”

“Later,” Aziraphale says, and he must notice Crowley’s distress at Aziraphale _turning down food,_ because he adds, “We’ll make a proper lunch, yes? I’m rather too _comfy_ to move, at the moment,” he admits.

Crowley grins. “Told you. Soft.” He runs a hand over the jumper, which is really just running a hand over Aziraphale’s side – he realizes this and stops with some regret.

Onscreen, the maybe-fake-maybe-not Santa is facing off against a shady psychiatrist in a mental examination. He answers every one of the psychiatrist’s basic questions and alternates them with insights of his own, compliant but clearly in control.

 _Do you get enough sleep?_ the Santa character asks. Crowley laughs.

Aziraphale glances over. “What is it?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

The psychiatrist holds up his hand – _How many fingers do you see?_ – and the Santa character takes hold of it to despair over the state of them. _Oh, you bite your nails, too,_ he laments, a veneer of concern over a layer of absolute _bitchiness._

“It’s just –” Crowley laughs again, a cackle that sets Aziraphale on guard. “It’s _you.”_

“What?” Aziraphale gets that look of being offended without yet knowing why he’s offended.

“That is _exactly_ how you talk to humans when they think they’re going to – to arrest you or discorporate you or something. Look at him, hasn’t got a care in the world and he’s not going to fake it for this schmuck.”

Aziraphale sniffs. “Perhaps he’s merely concerned for his welfare.”

“Sure, angel. We’ll go with that.”

They get to the end of the court case, the lawyer winning with a clever trick involving the postal service and letters to Santa, and Aziraphale is delighted. “Oh, that’s very clever.”

“Thanksss,” says Crowley. “Seaton got an Oscar for this, you know. Screenplay. But that’s three lines I’ve counted he stole from me, never mind the big twist.”

“That was yours?” Aziraphale says lightly. _Too_ lightly.

“Hang on – you _knew?”_

He has the decency to look embarrassed. “Well, I knew you were on set, at any rate. Don’t you recall namedropping Maureen O’Hara for a decade straight?”

“Hey, ginger solidarity. She _made_ Technicolor,” Crowley says. “Anyway, didn’t think you remembered.”

“Your hair isn’t ginger.” Aziraphale runs a hand through Crowley’s hair, casual and proprietary, sending shivers down his spine. “It’s darker than that. Auburn. Garnet. _Sangiovese.”_

“Blood of Jupiter,” Crowley murmurs, wondering if the wine has always made Aziraphale think of him, knowing it will now be on his mind every time he drinks Sangiovese from here to eternity.

“I hadn’t watched the film until today. Thought I would see what all the fuss was about. It’s really quite good,” he says earnestly. Probably true, but not enough to make Crowley forget that he chose all these things as a comfort _for_ Crowley, a distraction from his nerves.

Crowley _should_ chafe at being taken care of. He should raise a storm of demonic objections. He doesn’t. And his heart shouldn’t melt into a puddle of goo, but it does. He’s never been a very good demon, although he was an even worse angel; the only thing he’s ever been good at is taking care of Aziraphale, and now the favor is being returned, and this is where he belongs anyway. Earth, their middle ground. Their side.

 _Faith is believing in things when common sense tells you not to,_ says O’Hara onscreen. Crowley turns (can’t help it) to find Aziraphale tearing up a bit. He presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek.

And then the final scene, where the lead couple finds their dream house to live in with the little girl, and the music swells, and the big kiss. _Get you a house we can live in,_ Crowley stops himself from saying. _Get you anything. All the demonic miracles you could ask for._

The credits roll as Aziraphale, fastidious and enormous sap that he is, takes out a handkerchief (surely miracled? He couldn’t have transferred it to the jumper without Crowley seeing, and where would he put it anyway – maybe trouser pockets?) and dabs at his eyes. “Oh, that was beautiful.”

Crowley smirks. “Is there a Christmas film that _doesn’t_ make you cry?”

Aziraphale thinks. “Hmm… _Home Alone?”_ he offers.

“Now that’s a lie. _‘They left him! How could they just leave him?’”_

“Hush, you.”

“All I’m saying is, later, we’re watching _Die Hard.”_

“Is that a Christmas film?”

“Oh, _absolutely.”_

They put together a lunch, complete with the raspberry torte. Crowley, full on quiche, sips at his eggnog (to his inner serpent’s satisfaction) and watches Aziraphale eat.

“I have to ask,” Crowley says eventually, “did you bless the _Rudolph_ film, too? Or just the record?” Crowley spent decades not knowing Aziraphale had been involved in the franchise’s success. Had every reason not to know, since Aziraphale claimed only disdain of the character. That Aziraphale developed a soft spot for its creator (maybe inspired by Crowley’s own) is a new revelation. Lots of new revelations, this December. He wants to hear about them all.

“Well, it _was_ made in Japan.”

“Too far to travel?” he asks, knowing that’s unlikely – the Asia gate is in Osaka.

“The opposite! I simply _had_ to go. You know how I am about authentic cuisine.”

Crowley laughs. If only he could have been there with him, in – what, 1964? It wasn’t even a bad decade for them. They probably saw each other multiple times that year. But Crowley should have been there for it _all._ Should have gone with Aziraphale to the new restaurants and stayed in the hotel with him at night. Should never have left his side.

There were good reasons to stay apart, of course – he’s not faulting either of them for that. It was the universe itself that set things up unfairly and has only just now remedied the fact. He once thought the distance was for Aziraphale’s personal sake, too, but now Aziraphale _wants_ him to sleep over…

How long could Crowley have stayed nights at the bookshop, were it not for Heaven and Hell? How many times did he sleep alone, assuming Aziraphale wanted him gone, maybe being wrong?

“Oh, speaking of cuisine,” Aziraphale says. “Could we make the madeleines for Warlock now? That way they’ll be ready in plenty of time for tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Crowley imagines Warlock lighting up at the sight of the madeleines, biting into one with a smile on his face. He also imagines Warlock curling his lip up in disgust, shoving them away to fall on the pavement, rejecting him. Angry at him, which he has every right to be. Imagines how hurt Aziraphale will be if that happens. Tries _not_ to imagine how hurt he’ll be himself, and fails, a little. His sweet little hellion. Grown up and seeing through Crowley at last, seeing that his darkness goes far beyond whimsy, seeing his capacity for ruin.

“He’ll love them,” says Aziraphale, squeezing his hand. “He’ll love you. Never stopped, never will.” Aziraphale’s eyes are bright as he says this, and Crowley’s heart thumps in reply. All fluff and sentiment, he is, around his angel. True miracle he can even fit all these soft feelings in his demon body. But then, he’s used to it by now. He follows Aziraphale into the kitchen.

“Put something on while we bake,” Crowley says. “Anything at all. Something you like.” He’s in dangerous territory with this open invitation, but he doesn’t care. He’ll sit through anything Aziraphale wants and he won’t even resent it. Aziraphale deserves it, that and so much more.

“Oh, I liked your _Miracle.”_

 _Miracle_ isn’t even Crowley’s _type_ of film, for all that he was there for the filming, but he does like the lawyer bits. “Yeah, ’m glad. Now pick one of your favorites.”

Aziraphale hesitates. “Do you think you can get _White Christmas_ from the stream?”

“’Course I can.” Doesn’t matter if it’s on Netflix for the humans, it’ll be there* for Crowley.

* _It’ll be on Hulu Plus, actually. Demonic intervention just meshes a little bit more easily with Hulu Plus._

Aziraphale flashes Crowley the grateful smile that he would do anything to see, then turns and starts gathering the madeleine ingredients. Crowley brings in the television and sets it on the counter*. A few pointed glances and a raised eyebrow later, it begins to play.

* _It was sold as a ‘wireless television,’ so it never occurred to him that the power cable might be necessary. Therefore, it is not._

The music is familiar, as it should be. Crowley was there when they recorded it. Aziraphale was, too.

Hands deep in batter now, Aziraphale watches with a contented sigh. “It still amazes me what humans can do,” he says.

Crowley, of course, is watching Aziraphale. The film is a bit much for him, anyway – the sap, the cheer, the cheese. It was all well and good on set, where everyone got plenty of breaks to cuss and smoke cigarettes, but the film itself is all sentiment straight through.

“The _costumes,_ Crowley!” Aziraphale is in rapture as the two female leads come out in feathered blue for their first duet.

Crowley snorts. “You didn’t like the feathers any more than I did, as I recall.”

“Some things are better when viewed through a lens of time and distance.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Aziraphale is sliding the biscuits into the oven when next the music swells and the camera follows the secondary couple outside for their dance. The lyrics start and suddenly Crowley is trying very hard not to look at Aziraphale.

 _The best things happen when you’re dancing,_ Danny Kaye croons. _Things you would not do at home come naturally on the floor. For dancing soon becomes romancing…_

Crowley breaks.

“Give it a go?” he asks, holding out his hand.

“Really, Crowley, as if I remember any of the choreography –”

“Neither of us _ever_ knew the choreography,” Crowley points out. “But – like this?” He rests one arm on Aziraphale’s shoulder, because it’s convenient – he’s never seen the sense in having the _shorter_ person’s arms reach up that high, but he supposes it’s some nonsense about gender. The other he holds out to the side until Aziraphale gives in and grasps it in midair.

Aziraphale’s other hand goes to his hip, sending a frisson of warmth all through him. Crowley steps back, loosely in time with the music, and Aziraphale follows.

It’s a limited set of steps, back and forth in the kitchen, a shuffle where sometimes they’re both trying to lead and sometimes it turns out _no one’s_ leading; their knees bump more than once and Crowley keeps tripping backwards into cupboards despite Aziraphale’s best efforts to guide him away. It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect.

They do eventually find a rhythm of going mostly in the same direction at the same time, because you can’t spend millennia in someone’s (increasingly intimate) company without learning to read their intentions. Crowley notices that, while they sometimes make the mistake of stepping away at the same time, they make the mistake of stepping _towards_ each other at the same time _much more_ often. The space between their chests narrows and Aziraphale’s arm slides from his hip to his waist, where the flesh is less pointy and more sensitive. Finally Aziraphale falls into him with a sigh, head against his shoulder. They sway there together, steps just turning them in place.

And then the thumb on Crowley’s waist is stroking, slightly, and Crowley trips fantastically over his own feet. Aziraphale moves like lightning to catch him under the arms.

“Careful, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly with a fond (and somewhat insulting) grin. Crowley can’t bring himself to be insulted, or even much embarrassed; he’s soppy to the core, hollowed out by Aziraphale’s gaze, everything else forgotten. The arms around him are strong. And warm. And strong. How does he ever forget that Aziraphale is strong?

A line of dialogue ends the music, surprising Crowley, who had quite lost track of where the music was coming from.

Aziraphale releases him gently and goes to check on the madeleines, which are doing fine and nowhere near to done, but Aziraphale is fussing over them like a mother hen.

“We can go back to the sofa while we wait,” Crowley suggests, readying to pick up the telly.

Aziraphale casts an agonized glance back at the oven.

“Or not.” Crowley hops up so he’s sitting on the counter, earning him a long-suffering look from Aziraphale. (Which is silly, because his posture on the counter is better than it is anywhere else. His legs are lower than his torso and everything. His back is actually more vertical than horizontal. It’s alarmingly slouchless, but he doesn’t feel like putting his feet on the counter, which would be required for any decent sprawl.)

They keep watching as the madeleines bake and then as Aziraphale removes them and places them on a rack to cool. He does _not_ try to stop Crowley from taking one, presumably because he knows it’s pointless. He does, however, say, “I’ll never understand why you only show an interest in these when you’re not supposed to eat them yet.”

“Don’t you know anything about demons?” says Crowley through a full mouth before swallowing. “’Sides. ’S warm.” That gets a look of sudden sympathetic understanding from Aziraphale. Crowley scowls, but only on principle. It occurs to him that he doesn’t even remember the last time he felt cold.

Aziraphale decides they need more biscuits* given the number of guests at their Tadfield Christmas, so Crowley miracles another pan and they put two more batches in the oven, and then two more. Maybe it’s excessive, but Aziraphale looks so happy about it. Crowley briefly thinks that his angel would look cute in an apron, then strikes the thought for sheer undemonicity.

* _There’s also a brief scuffle over whether madeleines are properly a biscuit or a pastry, but it’s a debate they’ve had before and the sides** are well-entrenched, so it doesn’t last long._

_**One might assume the sides are ‘biscuit’ and ‘pastry’; one would be wrong. The sides are ‘both’ and ‘neither,’ and which is which will be left as an exercise to the reader._

Midway through there’s the scene where the lead couple kisses, before their big misunderstanding. The woman, a soft and radiant Rosemary Clooney*, goes to settle her nighttime nerves with sandwiches and buttermilk. Bing Crosby meets her there and comforts her with a song.

* _Crowley only ever bothered to remember names when they might give him opportunities for later conversations with Aziraphale. Old Hollywood offered plenty of those, what with the articles and gossip about “So-and-So’s new project” and “an upcoming film with What’s-Her-Name.” Crowley would hoard headlines and bring them to Aziraphale later, favoring those people they had met together. Aziraphale would be delighted: “Oh, you remember her? Isn’t she just lovely? We shall have to go see it!” Then they would spend a day together at the cinema, brushing fingers over popcorn, which Crowley only bothered eating for that very purpose. (And to annoy other audience members with his crunching.)_

Crowley watches and remembers how calm that day on set was, an oasis in the middle of several gigantic musical numbers.

By then, Aziraphale had perfected a habit of finding wherever Crowley was lurking to join him and watch the filming together. Something had changed since Crowley emerged from his nap and rescued Aziraphale in that church. He wasn’t sure why, but Aziraphale seemed to be seeking him out more, less worried about excuses. Sure, Aziraphale was still concerned about how much they were seen together and what that might imply, but when it was just the two of them, he no longer hedged through a long series of justifications before agreeing to a drink. A part of him that had repressed itself during the Victorian era was now free again and more tantalizing than ever.

When Aziraphale smiled at him, and leaned close to pore over sheet music, Crowley worked hard to keep himself in check. He’d loved Aziraphale for almost six thousand years, knowing it was pointless. No use in getting his hopes up now.

But their eyes met as the lead actress said her next line about her schoolgirl dreams of romance: _You know the bit, the lady fair and the knight on the white horse._

Aziraphale’s lips cracked into another smile. _“There’s something to be said for daring rescues.”_

There were several fantastic medieval memories there. And Crowley had played his (and her) fair share of the lady fair too, back in the day. But the Blitz in particular was fresh on his mind, and at Aziraphale’s words his heart stopped in his chest*. _“I suppose,”_ he said carefully.

* _Literally, breaking a six-year record of consistently humanlike beating._

 _“I wonder when she realized she loved him,”_ Aziraphale said, looking out onto the set in thought. Crowley was both relieved and disappointed by the abrupt, complete change in subject to something so unrelated.

Crowley nearly stole several things from the set for Aziraphale, including a large carousel horse from The Carousel Club, which Aziraphale cooed over nonstop. He restrained himself. The most tempting object came from the finale, where the lead woman gave her beloved a statue of a knight on a white horse*, calling back to their earlier conversation. It was left unguarded at the end of the day, sitting alone on a prop table. In retrospect, that made sense, because who was going to steal it?

* _Lots of horses in this production, but at least Crowley hadn’t encountered a real one._

But Crowley nearly _did_ steal it. He wanted to give it to Aziraphale, say _I will always rescue you,_ say _You already rescued me,_ say _Let me be your knight and your lady, I’ll be your_ horse _if that’s what you want, just let me be_ something. He didn’t. There wasn’t a single believable way Aziraphale could react positively, though Crowley imagined plenty of unbelievable scenarios. Imagined Aziraphale falling into an embrace, whispering words of love, allowing Crowley to be his everything.

Crowley knew better, and on the way out that night he noticed the statue was gone. It was for the best anyway. He wasn’t Aziraphale’s knight. Wasn’t Aziraphale’s anything.

Now, the line comes and Crowley wonders what he can get away with saying after all that’s changed between them. He forces himself to wait and think about it, to focus on the film instead. Something in him stirs at the way the couple _looks_ at each other during their song, especially the man. It’s open and tender and raw and devoted, and although it was sweet to see on set, it looks strangely familiar to him now in a way it didn’t before. As if he’s seen it more recently on someone else.

The oven beeps and Crowley rushes to take out the madeleines, because he can touch the pan with his bare hands and Aziraphale’s eyes go all gooey when Crowley does it for him. It achieves the same effect this time as every time, and Crowley’s lips twitch. “Here you go, angel,” he says. “Think that’s enough?”

“One more,” Aziraphale says, which really means anywhere from two to four to eight. Crowley knows this. He gets to work replenishing their batter supply.

At the end of the film, Crowley has his mouth around a wooden spoon full of dough when the statue appears. He swallows and clatters the spoon into the sink. He knows what he wants to say.

He waves his hand above the counter in a shape resembling the curve of a horse’s back, positioned at vaguely the right height. The statue forms in his wake. It’s just as he remembers it – a silver knight on a white horse on a black base, about the size of the small bag of flour beside it.

He raises his eyebrow as he indicates it to Aziraphale, not quite wanting to pick it up and hand it to him – not quite sure if he’ll take it. “Here,” he says. “Christmas present.”

Aziraphale picks it up in his stead.

Crowley continues: “I save you, you save me.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are wide. They may still be wet from tearing up at the end of the film*, or there may be some new tears. It’s impossible to know. “Always,” he says breathlessly.

* _Specifically, the part where the former general, down on his luck, realizes all the soldiers under his command have gathered to support him as they start to sing an old army song. Crowley will never admit to tearing up as well. But if he did –_ hypothetically _– at least he stopped by the time the two couples began to sing and finish out their romances, instead of getting worse, like some angels we could mention._

He leans forward as if without even thinking, one hand raising to cup the back of Crowley’s head as he kisses him. It’s so tender as to be almost painful; Crowley’s emotions were not built for this, and they’re raising a white flag of surrender. Aziraphale’s lips are soft and they part easily against Crowley’s. He can taste the sweet sugar of the madeleines, which Aziraphale has been sneaking with increasing lack of shame. Everything in Crowley’s body hums with an energy of contentment. It’s like he’s finally found the right frequency, and it’s here with Aziraphale, where he belongs. Where he has always belonged.

“My darling,” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley blushes and shifts nervously, which causes the horse (Aziraphale is still holding it between them) to poke him in the chest with its tail. This is more painful than the tenderness, and Crowley winces.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” says Aziraphale, pulling back and setting the statue on the counter once more.

“’S all right.” Crowley suspects his own smile is gentler than he habitually allows. “Do you think we need more madeleines?”

“I think this will be all right.” Aziraphale dusts off his hands theatrically and surveys their handiwork. “They’re going to love them.” He looks back at Crowley with a too-knowing gaze. _“He’s_ going to love them.”

“He’d better,” Crowley mutters. He attempts a façade of carelessness but feels it crumbling under that gaze like a cliff beside the sea. “’m his nanny. I’ll order him to.”

Aziraphale’s gaze moves briefly down to Crowley’s hands, which are twisting, at a loss for something to do. “He’ll be so happy to see us, my dear. I’m sure he’s missed us. Even me, although the change from Francis might be strange. I hope not too much. Harriet recognized me instantly.”

“Who wouldn’t recognize you anywhere?” Crowley says, and immediately regrets it; it sounded much more complimentary than he intended.

Aziraphale smiles, bashful. “Well. Do let me know if you need any help getting ready – I know your process is rather more elaborate, what with the costume and all.”

“Nah, quick to snap myself into it, and makeup’s a breeze with all the practice. I think I can still do the hair. Might ask you to take a look.” Miracled hair never turns out the way he wants it, which is a true enough reason to cover for how much he just wants Aziraphale’s hands in his hair. “What about you? All tip-top and in good form?”

“Yes, largely. Not much of a change. I think I’ll use that conditioner you recommended on my own hair. And…” Aziraphale hesitates.

“What?”

“Well, there’s only one part of my appearance that could _really_ use some work, as you know.”

Crowley trails his eyes down and then back up Aziraphale’s perfection, perplexed.

Aziraphale is blushing now. “You know. My _wings,_ dear boy. They’re in quite a state. I was wondering if I might take you up on your offer to return the favor.”

Crowley makes a noise he doesn’t mean to make as his brain tries to process this.

“It’s just, you know, I’d like to be _presentable*._ And I haven’t _properly_ preened in such a long time. It’s a terrible mess… Oh, I don’t want to pressure you –”

* _Much later – much, much later – it will occur to Crowley that Aziraphale was never exactly going to whip his wings out in front of the humans anyway. For now, Crowley’s brain marks this down as legitimate reasoning before going off on holiday._

“Yes,” Crowley says immediately, as soon as he senses Aziraphale’s doubt. “Yeah, let’s – of course. Owe you one. ’ll set ’em right. Make it good.” (The part of him that’s still conscious winces while the majority barrels on, fully on autopilot.) “Here, ah – sofa. Lie down. More room. Knock over all the biscuits if you brought ’em out here.”

Aziraphale smiles with a pleased _wiggle_ and heads to the sofa while Crowley congratulates himself on curbing his impulse to suggest the bed.

By the time Crowley follows, Aziraphale is on his stomach on the sofa, downy white wings out above him. They phase through the fabric of his clothing*, like always; they may be temporarily _on_ the corporeal plane, but they are not _of_ it. One stretches over the sofa’s back while the other trails down to rest on the floor.

* _Still just the cream-colored jumper, and Crowley remains mesmerized by the paring of Aziraphale’s usual four layers to two or maybe even one. Is there a shirt under there? Who knows**? Certainly not Crowley, but he’s not going to imagine one._

_**There isn’t._

Crowley sits on the sofa’s edge, hip pressing against the warmth of Aziraphale’s thigh. He’s not sure which one of them is trembling*. Slowly, he brings his hands forward to rest at the center of Aziraphale’s back.

* _It’s Crowley._

Aziraphale sighs, and Crowley has barely touched a feather yet. This is going to be the sweetest torture on Earth.

Crowley slides his fingers up into the wings proper, and soon they’re covered in that powdery substance Aziraphale has instead of oil. He rubs it between his fingertips. It’s soft and fine.

“If you need me to tell you anything…” Aziraphale starts.

Crowley echoes him from the time they did this in reverse: “I do _read_.” He smirks, though Aziraphale can’t see it.

In the end, it’s more instinct and cleverness that help him than any past forays into a certain ornithology book and its page about powder down, but he figures out how to smooth the feathers and sift out the dust and dirt. Aziraphale shivers every time he passes over the scapular feathers near the base, so Crowley does it more than necessary. Shifts his attention to the right wing first. Gently pulls free any loose feathers and wonders if it would be weird to keep them.

The more he touches Aziraphale’s feathers, the more they shine, until they gleam a blinding white he hasn’t seen since Eden. It’s a strange sensation, something becoming _more_ pure at his touch. It makes him strangely emotional – sets him on the edge of choking up. He was so afraid he would somehow dirty his angel, sully his beauty, but there’s no hint of that. No oil oozing from his nailbeds. No hidden demonic fire burning it all to ash.

He moves along the wing, straightening and perfecting, massaging until Aziraphale stops holding it up so tight. His feathers are so thick, fluffy down into which Crowley’s fingers sink even deeper than he’d imagined. And he has imagined this so many times. Sustained himself on accidental brushes through the centuries. Mourned the way time marched on and limited them more and more to their most human forms.

Aziraphale stirs as Crowley moves to the other wing. Crowley runs a soothing hand down his back and whispers, “It’s all right. Looks good.”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale says, and nothing more. He sounds lost. The most pleasant sort of lost.

Crowley works his way down the left wing, pulling and rubbing and scratching just slightly, smoothing and combing and powdering in turn. “Beautiful,” he says, a hoarse sound, louder than it should be in the quiet room. “I can’t believe – angel, it’s so bloody white, shine my eyes out on it, won’t mind a bit. And you’re letting me – ’s good. ’S working. It’s all good.”

Aziraphale’s breathing has become tranquil, slow inhales with long, contented exhales. Crowley shifts a little to reach the tip of the wing and Aziraphale’s head turns toward him, just a little, with a small sound – somewhere between a whimper and another sigh.

“That’s it, angel,” Crowley murmurs. “Almost done. Let me take care of you.”

Crowley is out of his body, words flowing without forethought and passing without reflection, no time to think about what he’s said when his hands are deep in the down of an angel. Not just an angel but _the_ angel, the only angel that matters, the keeper of his heart.

Aziraphale responds with a low hum. He sounds like he may be floating too.

 _I love you,_ Crowley thinks, and knows that Aziraphale knows, and knows that he’s letting him do this anyway. Is letting him keep trying, keep tending to that ground where love may one day grow in return. He would take care of Aziraphale anyway – has done for ages under the belief that the ground is barren. But this… this is more than he ever thought possible. He feels dizzy and wild with the liberties he’s taking. And he’s _permitted._

“There,” he says, instead of _I love you,_ for which it’s probably best to wait. “All done.” Crowley drops onto the floor and leans against the sofa, close enough to catch every expression on Aziraphale’s half-turned face.

Aziraphale… does something ( _moans,_ Crowley’s brain supplies, he’s moaning, and what is Crowley supposed to do with that?) and pulls his wings in enough that he can roll onto his side, facing Crowley. He opens his eyes slowly, a carousel of color. Blinks in the dim light.

“Hello,” Crowley says softly.

“Oh, _my,”_ says Aziraphale, and Crowley laughs.

“Good, isn’t it? Here, don’t you want to see?”

Aziraphale curves one wing down so he can look at the tip of it. “Oh, Crowley, it’s _gorgeous.”_

“I’ll fetch you proper mirrors. Set up a two-mirror system. Mirrors all over the place.” Crowley moves to stand, but Aziraphale puts his hand on Crowley’s arm, keeping him there. Fingers slide just a little up the sleeve of Crowley’s dressing gown and he sucks in a breath.

“Later,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t want to move just yet.”

“So I’m not allowed to either?” Crowley asks, aiming for amused.

Aziraphale’s fingers just clasp him tighter. “No, you stay here.” His tone is dreamy.

They exist there together in bliss, independent from time, until Crowley starts to wonder if Aziraphale might be about to fall asleep – an immense rarity. But Aziraphale’s gaze becomes clearer until finally he sits up, hand moving to Crowley’s shoulder.

“We should probably box up the madeleines,” Aziraphale says, the words flowing easily but slowly. The sheer contentment in his voice is gratifying. Crowley didn’t even know he could sound this –

_(Satisfied.)_

This at peace. Crowley wants nothing more than to stay at his side forever, doing whatever it takes to keep him that way. He will, if only given the chance.

Aziraphale goes to the kitchen and Crowley follows; together, they make quick work of the madeleines. Aziraphale stands in the kitchen doorway with a stack of them in small white boxes.

“Did you want to sleep here tonight, or at the bookshop?” he asks carefully, watching Crowley.

Crowley deliberates for a moment. “Nah, you’d be bored here all night. Let’s go to the bookshop. Get you something to read.”

Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle, his mouth nearly _blooming_ into a smile. “Oh. Oh, yes, quite. That’s perfect, my dear.” Crowley takes the boxes from him and Aziraphale passes by to pick up the knight statue from the counter. “Thank you,” he adds, like it’s a continuation of their conversation, not something about the statue _or_ the boxes.

Crowley looks at him for a long moment, determined to figure him out. Some things are an enigma, but he decides he’s got this one. And then, suddenly, he does get it. “Told you,” he says, nudging Aziraphale with his shoulder because his hands are occupied. “Not leaving you.”

Aziraphale’s smile grows, soft and precious. Crowley returns it, probably with too many teeth, but he doesn’t have to be soft. That’s the angel’s job.

The drive back to the bookshop is similarly peaceful, Aziraphale too blissed out to care about speed, Crowley too reverent of this magic-spelled night to push it. When he’s finally settled in Aziraphale’s bed (like he belongs, and how he’s missed it after one night, and how he never wants to leave it again), Aziraphale sits on the edge beside him, still getting reacquainted with the act of standing in the wake of Crowley’s grooming.

Crowley would be smug about it if he weren’t so ridiculously, heart-meltingly in love.

“One day you’ll let me tempt you into a good night’s sleep,” Crowley says.

“A whole night?” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow and then says, agreeably, “One day.”

“You’ll love it, you’ll see.” Crowley will make sure of it. And no nightmares for the angel, not ever. No waking up with a cricked neck. No cold feet in the night.

Which, to be fair, has been his own experience, here in Aziraphale’s bed. He wonders how much of it is the environment and how much is Aziraphale himself. Aziraphale, who can’t bless him directly and must resort to fixing things as they come, miracle by miracle and, once, with gentle hands on his shoulders.

A guardian angel for a demon, Crowley thinks, in a spectacular display of blasphemy. God can’t be angry with him, though, can She? He’s not _wrong._ And She made them this way, whether she wanted to or not. “Good night, angel,” he says.

It’s the first time they’ve done this little ritual with Aziraphale looking even more drowsy than Crowley, and it’s wonderful. “Good night,” says Aziraphale, blinking slowly.

Crowley waits. Aziraphale doesn’t move, neither towards nor away. “Hey,” Crowley prompts, reaching up for him, lifting his own head off the pillow.

“Oh. Oh yes, right,” Aziraphale says, smiling, and leans down. A quick kiss for his forehead. A long kiss for his mouth. “Good night, my dear. Go to sleep.”

He still doesn’t leave, just sits back up with his hand on Crowley’s arm, so Crowley turns on his side and closes his eyes. Sleep comes quickly here, in the warm, welcoming dark with his angel by his side.

And then, in some kind of insane waking dream, Aziraphale starts singing. _“When you’re weary and you can’t sleep, just count your blessings instead of sheep.”_ The song from _White Christmas,_ the scene in the nighttime where they kiss, and in a higher key than Crowley would have expected, which turns out to be suitable. Aziraphale’s voice is tentative but decent. He hits _most_ of the notes. To Crowley, it’s beautiful. _“And you’ll fall asleep counting your blessings.”_

“No blessings,” Crowley mumbles, “’m a demon.”

“Hush now, dear, you’ve done plenty of them for me.”

“Yeah, ’s fair,” Crowley says through a yawn. “’kay. Lot’sss of blessssings.” He loses control of the hiss as sleep takes him.

And he’s probably imagining it, lost in the dappled-light zone between waking and sleeping, but what he imagines is in Aziraphale’s voice: “You’re one of _my_ blessings.”

Crowley can’t fault him for the gravely non-demonic insult. His head is too full of dreamstuff, and sugar-sweet lemon-bite madeleines, and the touch of angel wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXKxazgio2s) is ‘Count Your Blessings’ from _White Christmas_ – whole film’s on Netflix too but this scene alone is so sweet! And [this right here](https://64.media.tumblr.com/c7b5f03a4606984aaa8b3da9efceb0b4/tumblr_inline_qlzxvdYI1A1qlqbfc_500.jpg) (click for photo!) is the closest match I’ve seen yet for the way I envision Aziraphale looking at Crowley in that photograph Crowley took - not exact, but getting there.
> 
> I was using Miracle on 34th anyway because, well, miracle, but I was not expecting my rewatch to uncover the scene with the psychiatrist, which is the most Aziraphale thing I have ever seen. Tried to find it on YouTube for you but all they have are the 1955/1994 versions – the 1947 is on Disney+ though! The evaluation scene is about 32 minutes in and it has big “Aziraphale when Shadwell tries to exorcise him” energy.
> 
> Tomorrow, for the prompt ‘christmas list’: Warlock arrives at last.


	20. Christmas List

The afternoon of their trip to Tadfield with Warlock, Aziraphale finds Crowley standing in front of a newly created mirror, messing about with hat netting.

“Absolutely wonderful,” Aziraphale says, and then, “Are you feeling the _she_ today, dear?”

“Nah. ’s just for Warlock. Don’t mind doing it though.” Crowley is speaking absently, his attention still on his reflection. “Do you think the hair’s good or – _blast_ it all –”

The hat falls from his hands, which are twisting with nerves. He always needs something to do with his hands when he’s anxious. That’s why Aziraphale suggested the wing grooming yesterday – although the benefit was certainly mutual. Aziraphale still feels tingly from it, a sense of loose contentment around his shoulder blades, radiating into the muscles of his corporation’s back. He wishes he could lend some of that relaxation to Crowley now. But it’s too late – they have to leave in ten minutes.

Aziraphale retrieves the hat from the floor and looks over Crowley’s hair, which is pinned together in tight sections, coiffed up and featuring a couple of dramatic waves near the front. It’s longer than it was when he first played Nanny Ashtoreth*, and Crowley has adapted the style marvelously. Aziraphale reaches out and shifts the shape of a curl just so, then places the hat on top.

* _Not to mention that sadly short haircut he got in a fit of existential liberation at the impending doom of the world. Aziraphale showed up to their first post-Ashtoreth rendezvous and was immediately hit with melancholy at the idea that he never got to run his fingers through that long, beautiful hair, not properly, and now he never would. He is thankful every day that he was wrong._

“Perfect,” he says, which takes some of the tension out of Crowley’s expression, but not all of it.

“Be critical, angel. Come on. I need opinions here.” His voice is taking on some of that Scottish lilt, a prelude to full commitment to the role. Although Crowley’s assignments never seemed like _roles._ Aziraphale would prep extensively for a character, making careful choices and thinking about motivation; Crowley always seemed to step into place and simply… _be_ someone. Anyone. Like he was made for it; like maybe he was glad for the escape. What a relief that there’s no need to escape anymore.

“You look absolutely beautiful,” Aziraphale says truthfully. “Come here.”

Crowley obeys (with barely a show of reluctance, the poor nervous dear) and Aziraphale puts his hands on Crowley’s shoulders. Surveys him. Leans forward until their noses bump gently.

“I’ve never seen a more fetching serpent in my life,” he says. It earns him a quirk of Crowley’s lips, barely visible at the bottom of his visual field. Most of his sight is taken up by the rest of Crowley’s face, with Crowley’s yellow-gold eyes so close, so wild. Enough to make Aziraphale’s pulse race.

“Not sure where you’d find another serpent who can pull off a skirt like this. Most of ’em haven’t got the legs for it.”

Aziraphale giggles. He’d underestimated how powerful it would feel to see Crowley in this guise now, after staring from across rooms for six years straight without the ability to touch. He had forgotten how sharp that pain had been. It eases some long-ignored ache to have Crowley here today, closer than ever, finally _his._ (And oh, they were always each other’s, but now it’s out in the open, now they’re _complete.)_ Aziraphale pulls him that last inch forward; Crowley tips his head to let him. Their lips meet briefly, Crowley’s cool and smooth and the texture strange.

“Watch it,” Crowley says. “Get lipstick on you.”

“I thought you miracled it safe!” Aziraphale casts about for a handkerchief, and before he can retrieve the one in his pocket, Crowley is there with another*, dabbing at Aziraphale’s lips.

* _The same one, actually, miraculously pulled from its hiding place, which Aziraphale will not discover until he reaches for it later on. He will try to be annoyed but fail. The idea of Crowley’s power brushing him close, of Crowley knowing his possessions intimately enough to take one from its location, of Crowley knowing_ him _intimately enough to feel he’s permitted – it will fill him with too much warm joy for any other emotion to fit._

“Always did it weatherproof, didn’t have a reason to do it _kissproof_ before,” Crowley says with a dramatic eyeroll. He snaps and the handkerchief disappears. “There, see?”

To prove it, he does not resume their earlier kiss but instead lifts Aziraphale’s hand and places another kiss on the back of it, lingering there. Something he’s done before, because they could get away with it, at balls and soirées in the age of carriages. Aziraphale always made a fuss, of course – pulled his hand away and found something else to talk about. It was dangerous, back then. Always feeling Crowley pull at the reins, knowing he was driving them toward a cliff. Crowley could take those risks because he knew Aziraphale would stop him. Aziraphale could stop him because he knew Crowley wouldn’t give up forever on trying.

Now, Crowley’s eyes go up to him and Aziraphale does not pull his hand away. Just waits until Crowley moves back to present the unblemished, lipstickless skin for inspection. “All clear.”

Aziraphale smiles and leans in, about to test it with his mouth when Crowley’s handbag makes a noise. Crowley clicks it open and draws out his mobile. The atrocious sound grows louder. Aziraphale winces. _“Really,_ Crowley.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows, doing nothing to silence it. If anything, it increases. He’s watching Aziraphale’s discomfort with poorly suppressed glee.

“Does it _always_ sound like that when someone rings you?”

Finally Crowley taps the screen and it stops. “We should leave soon. And no, that’s an alarm. Meant to wake someone up. Bit of a jolt and all – I’ve got worse ones after the fourth or fifth snooze. But you’ve got a proper ringtone, don’t worry.”

“And what is my ‘ringtone’?”

At this, Crowley looks uncomfortable. “Tell you later. C’mon. Got everything you need?”

Aziraphale glances around the bookshop. How strange, to be leaving it for so long after they’ve settled into this routine – he’s gone longer, of course, but not since the Dowlings’. Crowley will be with him, though, and that’s all the home he needs. (Not to mention the luggage they’ve already packed into the Bentley, with proper tea and enough books that Crowley pretended to struggle picking them up. Obviously he had no real trouble, but when Aziraphale took over and lifted them in one hand where Crowley had used two, Crowley just let him. It was the strangest thing. So much Crowley will leap to do for him, but this he just… watched. It was refreshing to feel he was helping out Crowley for a change, even if the stare as he did so was a little _intense.)_

The tree stands in the center of the shop, still bedecked past non-miraculous capacity, now with the addition of tinsel.

“Will it be all right?” he asks, turning to Crowley, suddenly worried. It feels wrong to abandon the dear thing.

“’Course. Right here waiting for us when we get back. And I have a funny feeling its water won’t run out, no matter how long we leave it.”

“Funny thing, that,” Aziraphale replies with a smile. “I remember oil with similar properties.”

“Yeah, except we don’t have Gabriel being a git and insisting you do it the hard way. Eight nights of manual expenditure, _honestly.”_

“It was a good thing I had you,” Aziraphale says softly.

Crowley’s face goes soft in return, though he’d never admit it. “Yeah. Good thing.”

They gaze at each other for a long moment, neither wanting to look away, before Aziraphale realizes something. “Oh! The madeleines!”

He goes to fetch them from the kitchen and returns to find Crowley plucking the wooden spaceship ornament from the tree – their gift for Warlock. One of many gifts, which Aziraphale has been squirrelling away since the moment they agreed to Christmas in Tadfield. Anathema and Madame Tracy were easy to shop for, but he’ll admit to being rather at a loss when it comes to Adam and the other children. He’s hoping a few days of observing them will offer inspiration to miracle something up before Christmas Day.

Crowley pulls sunglasses from some hidden pocket and puts them on, lenses tiny compared to his usual modern fare. Aziraphale takes a moment to mourn the sight of those astonishing eyes. He knows Crowley needs the barrier around the humans, both visually and emotionally, but still – he can’t wait until the end of the night, when they can retire to their bedroom and do away with them once more.

Their bedroom! How nice that will be, how cozy, how close he’ll sit next to his sleeping snake while reading in bed. Maybe he can even lie down beside Crowley – snuggle into him under cover of darkness. They are _married,_ after all, at least for the week, at least in Tadfield. It’s perfectly permissible.

Crowley is saying his name (well, actually, he’s saying _angel)_ as if it’s not the first time. Aziraphale comes back to himself and sees Crowley at the door, ready to leave. “Ah, yes! Sorry, my dear, let’s go.” And he barely spares a parting glance for the bookshop as he shuts off the lights and locks the door behind him.

The drive to the Dowlings’ estate is quiet, Crowley too keyed up with nerves to make proper conversation. The speedometer creeps up alarmingly high. Aziraphale places his hand on the dashboard, knowing Crowley is for once not doing it on purpose, silently begging the Bentley to slow to a point near sanity. Surprisingly, it seems to listen.

When they pull up to the estate, Crowley slumps back against his seat, then straightens immediately. Aziraphale suppresses a smile as he watches Crowley put on his perfect nanny posture.

“I’ll text him we’re ready,” says Crowley, thumbing his mobile.

Aziraphale looks out at the grounds – an immaculate green expanse. The new gardener must be doing well, or at least hasn’t managed to kill _everything_ yet. He hopes the gardener is treating Sister Slug* with care.

* _Sister Slug being, in actuality, a series of slugs from the colony under the east stone wall. Slugs are not especially easy to tell apart, even when one is an angel with inherent care for all living things. And particularly when one is a five-year-old (not-actually-the-)Antichrist._

They sit there in silence for a minute, then two, Crowley tapping one finger on the steering wheel. Aziraphale sends up a fervent prayer that Warlock will be kind to him. He believes with all his heart that Warlock won’t reject them – that kind of love doesn’t just _vanish_ over a single turbulent half-year – but he hopes there will not be too much tension at the start of things. That maybe some of Francis’s lessons in compassion will shine through.

Then Aziraphale opens the door.

“What are you doing?” Crowley asks, turning his head.

“Getting in the backseat,” says Aziraphale, climbing in. “Let Warlock ride in front, yes? He never actually got to _see_ the Bentley.” He shuts the door behind himself and settles back to wait.

Crowley looks at him in the rearview mirror, and pauses, and _looks_ at him some more, and then does that thing with his face like he’s either trying to say thank you or trying _not_ to. (Aziraphale has never been clear on the difference.) Finally he says, “Yeah. He’ll like that.”

And then Crowley goes tense again, and Aziraphale follows his eyeline to see a head of dark hair emerging from behind the gates. Crowley’s hand flies backward and Aziraphale offers his own to match it; Crowley grips his wrist tight. “He _loves_ you,” Aziraphale says, quiet and strong. “You will be perfect. And I’m right here.”

“You are that,” says Crowley with a tiny smile. He takes in a deep breath, releases Aziraphale’s hand, and exhales. And then he’s Nanny Ashtoreth. “Good to have my husband beside me,” he says, Scottish and light.

“Right where I belong,” Aziraphale answers, dipping into the Welsh before remembering that Harriet hadn’t missed it. “More or less,” he adds. Presumably Harriet mentioned something to Warlock about – his appearance, or his name, or – well, he’s been so concerned for Crowley that he hasn’t thought about it, but he’s thinking about it now. He pats his waistcoat down and looks back toward Warlock, who is approaching the car. Too late to worry now.

There’s a moment of indecision where Crowley considers getting out of the car – it’s brief, and anyone else wouldn’t see it, but Aziraphale can translate the line of tension in his body. Warlock throws his own suitcase in the boot before Crowley can move, though, and then the passenger door is opening, and then Warlock is peering in.

“Hello, hellspawn,” says Crowley in a voice that isn’t _entirely_ shaking.

Warlock sits down, taking his time to answer, which is already unusual. His blue eyes are wide, taking them in; he looks over Crowley first, then Aziraphale, and then Crowley again. Aziraphale feels like he is waiting for the verdict of a critic or a judge with some new celestial power.

“Hello, Warlock,” Aziraphale says, offering a smile. It _is_ good to see him – there’s been a vague worry in the back of his mind since they left him, and it eases now with the sight of the boy himself, alive and whole. He can’t have grown much, but it feels like he has. For Crowley it must be ten times worse.

Finally Warlock speaks, and it’s to Crowley: “Your hair’s longer.”

It’s hard to tell that with the hair up; Warlock is well-versed in the details of Crowley in a way only Aziraphale has ever been before. “Yes, it is,” says Crowley.

Warlock turns back to Aziraphale. Another of those critical stares, and then: “You look better.”

Aziraphale should be offended on behalf of Francis; instead he feels the relief of having escaped a negative sentencing. “No _better_ or _worse,_ I’m just different,” he says, an echo of the things he taught Warlock. He’s certain some of them got through. (And of course Crowley taught the same things, in his own way.) “But it is nice to be out of the sun now and again. _You,_ though, Master Warlock, you got taller, didn’t you?” He’s ditched the Welsh – if Harriet told Warlock his accent changed, it would be worse to change it _back_. But he can’t help it peeking out a bit on the words _Master Warlock._

“A little,” Warlock says, and shrugs, dismissing him. He turns back to look out the front of the car. Aziraphale thinks that he has all the presence of a fully powered Adam – an Antichrist-like control of the conversation, right now, with everyone on edge for his command. “How long is it to Tadfield?”

“A little over two hours,” Crowley answers. Aziraphale isn’t sure if he means _for a human_ or _the way Crowley drives,_ but supposes they’re about to find out.

“Let’s go.” Warlock crosses his arms like he’s blocking out any objection. “Adam and the Them are waiting for me.”

Crowley’s eyes find Aziraphale’s in the mirror, lost. Aziraphale tries to convey warmth and a gentle urging: _go with it._ Finally Crowley starts the car and heads for the main road. They’re moving more slowly than normal – a speed almost fit for a mortal passenger. The gesture speaks volumes, although Warlock, who will never know about their powers, will never understand enough to hear it.

Crowley clears his throat – delicately, to match his light voice. “You can put whatever you’d like on the radio.” He presses the knob, as if to show Warlock. Warlock looks over at him for a long moment. There’s some kind of conflict in his expression – some turmoil, churning just under the surface. Aziraphale could skim the most superficial layer of this thoughts in a moment and know everything. But he doesn’t. It wouldn’t be fair.

There’s more going on here than he understands, and Crowley looks out of his depth too.

Warlock reaches over and fiddles with the knob a few times, changing stations. His engagement relieves a little from the set of Crowley’s shoulders. “Whatever’s good,” Warlock decides as he sits back.

The Bentley puts on – _something…_ it’s bebop-y and sounds like the sort of thing Warlock always listens to, and Warlock seems to breathe easier upon hearing it. Aziraphale pats the seat beneath him in gratitude.

It will take time, but these things do. They’ll be okay. What to talk about in the meantime? Aziraphale casts his mind back to their preparations – it all seems woefully inadequate now, washed away beneath Warlock’s piercing gaze. All their backstory about first dates. At least, he thinks, Warlock will understand who they are to each other. He always did.

In the meantime, all they can do is be who Warlock thinks they are: two humans, muddling along through their short existences, apologetic for leaving him, hoping to come back into his life.

“So, what do you want for Christmas, Warlock?” Aziraphale asks, filling the space. Normally they would have seen his wish list before he even sent it off to his parents. Helped him with the writing, in those early days, and the spelling, later on, and then just research, Crowley displaying unnatural knowledge of the best toys on the market.

Warlock turns to talk to him. He seems _more_ at ease with Aziraphale than with Crowley, which is all wrong. Aziraphale wants to take it back. He wants to redirect the flow of words to Crowley, rebuild a bridge that’s more broken than he’d imagined. “I got a lot of games already. There’s a new Call of Duty, and Borderlands 3, and Pokémon Sword and Shield – I’m doing the Fire starter of course. I wanna get Adam to play CoD but his mom says it’s too violent. I guess they play outside a lot there, which… whatever. I mean, I know it’s your thing, you probably think I should give the outdoors a try, right?” He raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale, who chuckles, keeping any pain as far out of it as he can. “Anyway, oh, and a poster of the _Jonas_ Brothers, I guess Dad met them and made them sign it but who likes _them_ anymore, I’m going to burn it in the backyard first chance I get –”

“You’re not saying you’ve already opened your presents?” Aziraphale says. Crowley’s attention is fully wrapped up in Warlock now; the Bentley’s keeping them on the road all by itself.

“Yeah, Mom wanted to do it early so I have stuff for the trip. And so Dad was there. I mean, he still wasn’t _there,_ there was a conference call but –” Warlock breaks off and forces a change of subject. “Anyway, the _best_ thing is, I got a Nintendo Switch Lite.”

“Don’t you already have a Nintendo Switch?” asks Crowley, a little teasingly. From his surprised expression when he’s done speaking, he wasn’t expecting to say it until he did.

Warlock gives him a long look. He seems hesitant, but Aziraphale recognizes it: he _wants_ to talk to Crowley. He’s holding himself back. Finally he says, tentatively, “Battery life. And it’s easier to carry. I, uh – I brought it with me.”

“Oh?” Crowley is feigning confidence. “Maybe you can show me some games, then.”

“Maybe,” Warlock says, the closest he’s ever come to _shy._

Aziraphale loves them both to pieces. To the end of the world. (And, demonstrably, beyond.)

When Crowley starts to shift awkwardly in the silence, Aziraphale steps in: “Is that everything you asked for, then?”

“Mostly. I _really_ wanted a drone, but they said no.” (Behind Crowley’s glasses, one thin eyebrow raises, and his eyes have surely lit up. Aziraphale shakes his head. Crowley does not acknowledge him.) “And I wanted a new hat because my old one fell in a ditch, I didn’t _mean_ to, honest, but one of the boys from our Music Studies group* – well, anyway, I asked Mom for a new one, but she got me a cutesy kid one with cartoons. _Dinosaurs.”_ He wrinkles his nose.

* _Warlock’s studies have taken a number of twists and turns over the years. For the most part, a mix of tutors and study groups has been used to meet the requirements of home education without Thaddeus or Harriet needing to personally do any educating. Twice Harriet has decided Warlock would benefit from the experience of real school and enrolled him – both times ended in disaster, though at least she never let Thaddeus send him in for boarding. The second time, Warlock’s education was only saved by the miraculously convenient appearance of two tutors with the knowledge and availability to finish out the year’s curriculum.  
The glamours involved to avoid recognition were exhausting, and the double shifts even more so. But Crowley was a natural at explanation, and Aziraphale had excellent elocution, so the experience was enjoyable on the whole – even if they got carried away sometimes with the depth of personal detail in their history lessons._

Crowley does a small huff, either similarly offended or making a good show of it.

“Which I know she’s just doing because she _thinks_ that all eleven-year-old boys are _supposed_ to like dinosaurs. And that’s wrong. That’s a stereotype, right?” He looks at Crowley for a response.

Crowley nods. “Quite right. Awful thing, making assumptions based on someone’s demographics.”

“Right! So I told her –” Warlock cuts off abruptly. His face does a strange twist that Aziraphale can’t read. Crowley’s face moves in sympathy.

“What, love?” asks Crowley softly. “What did you tell her?”

Warlock continues in a different tone, tremulous, eyes locked onto Crowley’s glasses. He shrugs, like it will lessen the weight of his words. “I told her dinosaur skeletons are a joke the paleontologists haven’t seen yet.”

Crowley sucks in a breath. Aziraphale would bet there are tears in his eyes, and for once he’s grateful for Crowley’s lenses, for Crowley’s sake.

“Was that true?” Warlock asks. “How you told me?” A challenge, with something vulnerable at the core of it.

“Yes,” Crowley says. “October of 4004 and not a day earlier. Before that was a lot of – a lot of nothing, everywhere. No place for dinosaurs there. One day they’ll get the joke and – and we’ll all have a big laugh over it. Or they’ll get fired. But they’ll probably deserve it.”

This seems to settle something for Warlock, who nods once, decisive. He looks back out at the road. Doesn’t say anything more.

Crowley waits a moment before speaking. “Now, tell me about this boy from Music Studies. What did he do to your hat?”

The hat in question was a gift from Crowley and Aziraphale one Christmas and, like all their gifts, it stayed exactly his size as he grew.

“I’m sure it’s not your fault,” Crowley adds gently. And then, not at all gently: “But tell me about the rat who did it and I’ll have a talk with him.”

Warlock doesn’t look away from the road. “It’s fine.”

“If someone’s bullying you… if that Russian ambassador’s kid is back –”

“No, it’s not him. Just – leave it –”

“It’s okay to stand up for yourself, you _should –”_

“It’s not like that –”

“Mercy is for other people, remember, and I know you can do better, can be as ruthless and bloodthirsty as I taught you –”

“That’s not me!” Warlock’s head snaps up, something fierce and bitter in his eyes. “I can’t do that, I can’t do what you can do, you’re a demon! _You’re ACTUALLY a demon and YOU DIDN’T TELL ME!”_

There is a moment wherein no one breathes.

And then another one.

And then one more, for good measure.

Crowley nearly chokes, audibly, when his lungs start up again. Aziraphale has better luck with the lungs but his mind is racing. How does Warlock know? How _long_ has Warlock known? How _much?_ Where did they go wrong? How can they fix this? Should they make him forget? _Can_ they make him forget? Send him off to sleep, sweet dreams, and then they can never see him again –

“How do you know?” Crowley asks, a quiet voice that’s loud in the sudden breathless silence.

Warlock’s eyes have dropped down again, fixated on his lap. “The _real_ Antichrist told me,” he mumbles.

“He did?” Crowley snarls through gritted teeth. Aziraphale reaches forward to put a hand on his arm, half-comfort, half-warning. Crowley doesn’t acknowledge it but doesn’t bat it away, just clenches his own hands into fists. There’s no pretense of a steering wheel anymore; they’re surviving rush hour motorway traffic on residual demonic magic alone.

“He did. And I’m glad. He thought I should know, and he was right. You were there when the world almost ended. So all those stories – they weren’t just stories, were they?”

“You believed me,” says Crowley, and it’s a little desperate. “At least, when you were young. I didn’t _want_ you to think they were just stories, but you got older and you – and then I…”

“He said you have demon eyes.” Warlock is staring at him, a silent question, and Crowley whips off his sunglasses without a second’s thought.

“Yes, I do. I would have shown you, only your mother would have panicked and fired me on the spot. I was never – I wasn’t going to _hurt_ you, I’m not _that_ sort of demon –”

Aziraphale remembers a conversation in a park, and another in a bandstand, and standing on an airfield holding a massive gun. He doesn’t think things would have gone that far if it were Warlock on the other end of it. Doesn’t think either of them would have made it further than Crowley’s first idle speculation. Once the boy was not Warlock, the boy was abstract, which made it possible (though not easy) to… _dispose_ of him. But they couldn’t have done that to Warlock. Not even for the world. It’s unfair, and it’s biased, and it’s terribly cruel to Adam and all the people that love him. But it’s true.

“I’m not saying you are,” Warlock interrupts. “I’m saying that you’re a liar. That’s not even what you really look like. They told me.”

Crowley touches his own face as if he’s going to feel something different there. “This is me too, Warlock. I always look like me.”

Some of the fight goes out of Warlock. Still sullen, but with less fire. “Yeah, I know.”

“They’re right that I change what I look like, often, though. I just chose this because – well, I wanted to look the best way I could for being your nanny.”

“So what you looked like when you met the Them – that’s how you look the rest of the time?”

“Usually.”

Warlock hesitates, and when he speaks again it’s an honest question, not a demand. “Can I see?”

Crowley nods and snaps. It’s a process that’s mostly clothing. The smaller glasses are already gone, and the hat disappears with the clothes. Crowley sits there in his regular look, too-tight trousers and all, and starts pulling at the pins in his hair.

Aziraphale reaches forward to help him, noting with surreal disembodiment that they’re still chugging along the motorway. At least for once they’re not the fastest car in sight.

Warlock looks him over as the last of the pins comes out. He nods, a neutral judgment that gives away nothing. “Okay.”

“They’re both me,” Crowley says, eyes wide and earnest. “It’s all me.”

“I know.” Another hesitation. A visible self-armoring as Warlock draws himself up a little, puts some fire back into his voice. “What’s your name?”

If that hurts Aziraphale, it must hurt Crowley more, because his name is _Nanny,_ Warlock has never said anything else. But Crowley answers with some difficulty: “Ah… your mum thinks Ashtoreth Fell. But ’s Crowley.” The accent remains, but the lilt has gone. Words slide together like living things through a throat of stone.

“Crowley.” Warlock tests it on his tongue. “Just Crowley?”

“It’s, ah, it’s Anthony J. Crowley but really it’s not – just made that up for the humans, it’s – that bit’s not important. None of it’s important. Names, really, what’s a name, any name is just –”

“What’s the J for?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley says, “but I’m taking suggestions.”

Warlock doesn’t rise to the offer. He turns all the way to stare out the side window, forehead against the glass. “So I guess I know, now.”

“It’s still me, Warlock.” Crowley’s voice is raw and open. Aziraphale wants to hold him. As soon as they get to Tadfield (and oh, goodness, what then? What about the others? What comes next? Well, at any rate –) he will hold him, the moment he can.

“Yeah. I just never knew who you were.” Warlock sounds more resigned than anything. He goes back to gazing out the window. Aziraphale can just barely see his reflection in the glass – a hint of tears.

Crowley hesitates. “You know who I am. You know me better than almost anyone. That was all real, Warlock. I promise.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“I’ll prove it to you. However you’d like. Take however long, doesn’t matter. Anything.”

“Okay.” He’s disengaged from the conversation, retreating into sullen preteenagerhood. It’s how he talks to Harriet, sometimes – mastering the art of perfunctory replies that mean nothing. He never spoke to Crowley that way, before. He didn’t need to. Crowley was always interested, always interest _ing,_ always pleased by questions, never impatient. Always deeply involved in every conversation they ever had.

Even now, Crowley is straining forward, all of his attention on one young boy, nothing of the outside world remaining. Aziraphale feels like an intruder. He wants to say something to make things better, but can’t think of anything that won’t make it worse. That won’t make them turn and stare at him like he isn’t supposed to be here.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” says Warlock, which probably isn’t true, but Crowley allows it.

“Okay. There’s a stop up ahead.” Crowley takes hold of the wheel in shaking hands and directs them.

When they pull into a parking space, Warlock darts out of the car before anyone can stop him and heads into the building. Crowley gets out, too, and stands unmoving beside the driver’s side door.

“I’ll talk to him,” Aziraphale says. “It’s a shock, of course, but deep down he knows who you are. He just needs to understand that you always _meant_ it. And he will. It’s awful right now, darling, of course it is, but we’ll get there. I promise.”

He’s afraid Crowley will look away, or even just ignore him, like Aziraphale is still not a part of his world. Silly to think it. Crowley turns his way like a flower to the sun, leaning forward like he’s desperate for comfort. Aziraphale moves to get out of the car but Crowley holds up a hand to intercept him. “I’m going after him. But you’re right, angel. Sure. We’ll get there.” He doesn’t sound like he believes it, but he does sound more steady.

Aziraphale gives his best reassuring smile. “Of course we will. He’s family.”

Crowley smiles back and walks up the path with new determination.

Just as he reaches the door, Warlock steps out of it and stops, letting it swing shut behind him.

Crowley leans against the concrete wall, hands in his pockets. Aziraphale can just barely make out the expressions on their faces. A human wouldn’t be able to hear from this distance, but he’s an angel, and Warlock’s words are clear:

“You left me.”

He’s been crying. Aziraphale has a pang of conscience for listening in, but then Crowley _knows_ he’s listening, and as for Warlock – well, he’s still a child, and he needs looking after.

“You figured out I wasn’t the Antichrist and you _left_ me because you wanted the real one, because I’m just a human and you don’t want me anymore.”

Crowley’s hands fly out of the pockets to hover around Warlock’s elbows, nearly touching, waiting to be allowed. There are tears in Crowley’s voice, too. _“No,_ I never wanted to leave you, I love you human. I’d love you as a bloody aardvark. None of that matters. I wanted to keep you _away_ from all this – keep you safe.”

“I’m safe with you.”

“I know that now. I promise, I do. I thought you’d be better off without me. If you could just – live your life, your _normal_ life, without all the – the fire and danger and bloody Armageddon. Didn’t think you’d want a demon around. I was trying so hard to get away before I could ruin everything, love. I didn’t know I was ruining it anyway.”

“Why would I want a _normal_ life?” Warlock is making great sweeping hand gestures, visible from the car. “All the stories you told me, they were _so cool._ I thought they weren’t real, but I liked them anyway. And then it turns out they _are_ real, and you left me to go where they were actually happening. Where the _real_ Antichrist was. I figured… so that isn’t why you left? Because you didn’t need me?”

“You think I left you for – what’s his name?”

It sounds rhetorical, so Warlock takes a moment to answer, but eventually he mumbles, “Adam.”

“…Yeah, I’m not gonna remember that. You think I left you for _him?_ I haven’t spent two minutes with that kid since Armageddon. But I haven’t gone a _single day_ without thinking of you.”

Warlock makes a noise and then his arms are around Crowley, squeezing him tightly, holding him close. Crowley cradles him in return. Aziraphale watches the embrace from the car and feels his heart slide back into place, start to beat properly again. “You smell the same,” Warlock says, muffled against Crowley’s jacket.

“What’s that?”

“Like – like a bonfire. And those flowers* you put in the window. Like _you.”_

* _Aziraphale has never figured out the origin of those flowers, which do smell like Crowley, that strange in-between fruit – the bite of apple with tantalizing pear underneath. He suspects they are not of Earth._

Crowley meets Aziraphale’s eyes over the top of Warlock’s head. His smile is a work of art – radiant and touched. He kisses the top of Warlock’s head. “You’d better get used to it. You’re stuck with me now.”

 _“Good,”_ Warlock says fiercely.

It takes him a long time to step back, and when he finally does, it’s with the forced casual air of a boy pretending he’s never cried in his life, and certainly not two minutes ago.

“Nanny, can we go to Tadfield now?”

Crowley melts a little, staring down at him. His loving expression is strong enough for Aziraphale to see it from here. “Of course, my darling hellion.”

When they slide back into the car, Warlock reaches for the radio button. The Bentley changes to a new tune before he even touches it, and evidently it pleases him, because he sits back and nods along. They’re back on the motorway by the time Warlock speaks again: “Francis, did you summon Nanny? Or are you just one of the cursed humans with a demon attached to your soul?

Aziraphale chokes on air and shoots a glare at Crowley, who is cackling madly. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Only, I didn’t know humans could marry demons,” Warlock continues. “Nanny never said.”

“I am an _angel,”_ Aziraphale replies with as much dignity as he can muster.

Warlock twists around and appraises him anew. It’s much less terrifying this time. “Really? Were you the one at the airfield then, with the sword? And it was on fire?”

“What _stories_ they’ve been telling you.” Aziraphale chuckles nervously. Then he sees Warlock’s expression, which is unimpressed. “Yes, oh, all right. We were both there. And it was _terribly_ dangerous, bad enough that Adam and his friends were involved – if you’d been with us I think I’d have lost my head with worry.” As serious as possible, meeting Warlock’s eyes steadily, he says, “I could only function knowing that you were safe. And it was all a bit of a relief, that you weren’t the Antichrist.”

“Safe is boring,” says Warlock.

“You’ve an angel and a demon for godparents, my dear,” Aziraphale tells him – never mind that Harriet never actually put any godparents down. If Adam’s father can be human, they’ve certainly a claim to the human they half-raised. “So long as you’ll have us, your life will never be _boring.”_

Warlock looks pleased at this. “But you must be disappointed – well, I guess not _you._ But, Nanny –” He turns to face Crowley. “You’re disappointed, right? That I didn’t do Armageddon? And I guess that Adam didn’t either.”

“Are you joking?” Crowley has one hand on the steering wheel now, exerting _some_ control over their path, but he’s not glancing at the road very often. “You’re in a car with the only two supernatural beings who _didn’t_ want anyone to do Armageddon. Didn’t they tell you that’s why we were at the airfield? We stopped it.”

“We helped,” Aziraphale mutters.

 _“Adam_ helped,” Crowley concedes. “But, no. Trust me, we’re big fans of Earth just the way it is. Aren’t you?”

“Well… you always told me about how cool it would be once I had my own legion of the damned…” Warlock says slowly.

Crowley shrugs, as if to say _fair point._

“But after the flames of Hell rise up to devour the Earth, I don’t think there’d be a Nintendo anymore. So I’m glad it didn’t happen.”

“Out of the mouths of babes,” Aziraphale says, meeting Crowley’s eyes in the mirror with a small smile.

Warlock rounds on Aziraphale. “I want to see the flaming sword!”

“Absolutely out of the question!”

Beseeching, Warlock turns to Crowley instead. “Can I? Can I?”

Crowley grins, and Aziraphale is sure he’d say _yes_ were it a possibility. Honestly. There really are _two_ children in the car. “Sadly, you can’t. He gave it away.”

“I did not! I _returned_ it, as requested. I rather hope we won’t have need of such a thing for at _least_ a few centuries.”

Warlock groans. “Come on! That would have been so cool! You _are_ boring.”

“Now, now,” Crowley scolds. Defending Aziraphale’s honor. “He’s a wee bit out of date, but not _boring.”_

Aziraphale’s smile drops away at the lackluster defense. “Crowley, _really –”_

“And why do you talk like that? Talk normal,” Warlock says at Crowley. “You’re not even Scottish!”

“Oi, I’m older than Scotland, you little shite,” Crowley says, losing the accent, but it’s with a smile. Aziraphale is preparing a lecture about the evils of referring to any accent or dialect as _not normal_ when Crowley gives Warlock a sly sideways glance, one that spells _trouble:_ “So you want cool, huh? Did you know I can turn into a giant snake?”

There’s no regaining control over the conversation after that.

It’s long past dark by the time they make it to the Youngs’ house, Crowley deep in an explanation of just how long and sharp his fangs can get. They park across the street. The front door to the house flies open and Adam is standing there, bathed in cozy indoor light.

Warlock looks at Crowley (and _oh,_ it’s for permission) – Crowley nods. “Go on then, we’ll get the luggage.”

Three words in Warlock is racing off. Crowley hollers after him out the open window:

“And look before you cross the street, didn’t bring you all this way to get hit by a bus – honestly,” he says to Aziraphale as Warlock makes it up to Adam without looking either of _both ways._ “Was he raised by wolves?”

“Only one of us has the fangs for it,” Aziraphale answers. He exits the car before Crowley can muster a reply.

They’ve got all their luggage out on the ground and Crowley’s starting to pick up a suitcase when Aziraphale stops him.

“Come here,” he says, and takes Crowley in his arms where he belongs.

After a moment to process, Crowley grabs him and clings, serpentine, arms twining around Aziraphale’s back, feet catching Aziraphale’s between his own. “We made it.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale pulls back just enough to see his face – Crowley’s holding him too tight to move further and anyway, he doesn’t want to. “I won’t say I told you so.”

“Just did,” Crowley mutters.

“But we’re going to be all right. And you were so good with him, darling. I am _unspeakably_ proud of you.”

Crowley flushes from his shirt’s (low) neckline all the way up to his glasses, which have been replaced in anticipation of human company. (Non-Warlock company. Non- _family_ company, for all that the others are dear friends, and Aziraphale is fiercely glad of what the three of them have built. A space for them where none was supposed to be. They weren’t supposed to have Warlock any more than they were supposed to have each other, but somehow, ineffably, they do.) Aziraphale pecks a kiss onto his nose.

Then he glances to the side, surveying the Youngs’ house and the luggage, turning over logistics. “Hmm, do you think…”

So he doesn’t notice Crowley approaching until the moment Crowley captures his lips with his own.

Aziraphale doesn’t _get_ cold, as a rule, but he still _feels_ it, and by contrast Crowley’s body is warm against his own, his mouth even more so. Warm and tempting except he doesn’t have to resist, he can _have_ this, and what’s the word for something tempting after you’ve given in? Ravishing. Delectable. Ambrosian. Shelter. _Home._

Aziraphale drinks in that ambrosia with the sense that this is the most gluttonous he has ever been. More than food, more than drink, more than books, more than anything. He will never be full of this and it’s downright blasphemous to think what he would do (what _wouldn’t_ he do) to have more of this, to keep it –

Crowley deepens the kiss and the last of Aziraphale’s conscious thoughts die in a spectacular fit of lightning.

He moans into Crowley’s mouth and wraps his arms more securely around his neck, pulling him in close. The love in Aziraphale is so overwhelming it could overflow, like _he_ is contained by _it_ and not the other way around, because this is _Crowley,_ whom he wanted before he knew he could want, whom he loved before he knew he could love. It is impossible to be close enough to him. It is equally impossible not to try. He drifts a hand onto Crowley’s scalp and traces circles onto it through the soft hair. Everything he has ever wanted. It’s all he can think. _Everything he has ever wanted._

Something pressed into his back makes him aware he has been pushed against the Bentley. With the thought of the Bentley comes the thought of the street, and of the house, and of where they are, and _oh goodness._

“Crowley,” he pulls away enough to whisper. Crowley seems suddenly frightened so Aziraphale kisses him again, softly, and adds, “The children.” and kisses him _again,_ still softly, just enough to make it clear how very much he does _not_ regret it.

“Right,” Crowley whispers back. His eyes are wide and they roam over Aziraphale’s face, over his hair, like there’s something there to see.

“We should…”

“Yes,” Crowley says, but Aziraphale isn’t listening. He’s looking around them, because Crowley, Aziraphale, the Bentley, all of it, is covered in the lightest dusting of _snow._

“Oh!” he says, moving his hands back to himself to clasp them in delight. “Oh, Crowley, _look._ It must be Adam. Those _delightful_ perfect winters.”

“Yeah.” Crowley steps away, just enough to be proper. He’s awkward about it, ducking his head. “Yeah, Adam. Definitely.”

This is suspicious enough for Aziraphale to sharpen his observation, and he realizes the snow covers an area of about two meters in diameter, centered around them and reaching only to a neighboring streetlamp. “Oh, _Crowley,”_ he says again, melting entirely, and Crowley is embarrassed.

“’S, um, on purpose*. Reminded me of – of Sadler’s Wells.”

* _This, not at all in the tone of someone who has done something on purpose._

They’ve visited Sadler’s Wells Theatre many times, of course, but immediately Aziraphale knows the time he means. It was one of their years with the Dowlings’, and there was a ballet Aziraphale desperately wanted to see. His day off was ill-placed in comparison, and he’d resigned himself to missing it. But Crowley (entirely without any pleading looks, Aziraphale hadn’t thought there’d be a _point)_ somehow wrangled a change in schedule and took him there.

Aziraphale returned to his regular appearance, obviously – the mere idea of wearing those gardener’s clothes to the theatre made him want to curl up in shame and weep softly in a corner. Crowley maintained her nanny appearance with a slightly lacier black dress and higher heels, because she looked fantastic and knew it. The ballet was spectacular, even _(especially)_ with Crowley making occasional irreverent comments and glaring at anyone who acted like they might try to get to their seat past Aziraphale and Crowley’s knees rather than going the other way around.

 _“I think they’re all under the impression that you’re a very wealthy and recent widow,”_ said Aziraphale as they exited the theatre into refreshing cold air.

 _“Stepping out scandalously soon with a handsome man?”_ asked Crowley. She was grinning, a gentle tease, not nearly as dramatic as she once would have made it. She’d done less of that overdrama, in recent years – she was letting things sound truer. The honesty showed through. (But then, hadn’t it always?)

 _“Well, we can’t have a scandal,”_ Aziraphale murmured, reaching up to fix some of the netting on the back of her hat. It was thrilling and terrifying, that people might think they were together. He’d always felt the terror, and it was growing as the Apocalypse loomed near, but the thrill was rising to meet it. Providing and consuming in equal measure. What if this was all the time they had? What if this was the end of them? How much could he really hurt with one kiss? Throw caution to the wind, perhaps, if this was the only chance he’d ever get to love, to have, to _hold_ Crowley… before he lost Crowley forever…

But it could make things _so much_ worse. If they just stayed cautious, stuck to the plan, then Armageddon wouldn’t happen at all. Heaven was counting on him to manage this assignment. They’d taken his idea well, told him it was commendable, asked for regular check-ins. The work was important. It _mattered._

If he did everything exactly right, he wouldn’t have to lose Crowley at all.

Still, when her gaze at him under the streetlamp was interrupted only by a poorly concealed shiver, he acted without a second thought.

 _“Here,”_ he said, removing his coat. _“Really, Crowley, you_ must _take care of yourself. I know you know how to dress sensibly for winter.”_

She’d forgone her long sleeves for the outing, and as he wrapped the coat around her she clutched it gratefully. He couldn’t help but stop behind her as he secured it, placing his hands on her shoulders, standing too close. So very near to an embrace.

 _I love you so very much,_ he thought, and then he had another of those moments where he wasn’t sure he hadn’t said it out loud. Those were increasingly frequent, as if some part of him knew he was running out of time to say it, bubbling up the truth to fill in all the places it hadn’t reached. _I will not run out of time,_ he thought in admonition. _We will not lose each other._

And they both knew, anyway, that they loved each other. What would saying it out loud accomplish but pain?

As they stood there, reluctant to break away, snow began to fall. It dusted Crowley’s hair, making her shine in the glow of the streetlamp. There were delighted shouts from humans all along the street – it had been years since a proper snow reached central London.

Crowley turned to him excitedly and one of his hands stayed on her shoulder, taking too long to let go. _“Look, angel,”_ she said. _“Snow.”_

The thing was, Crowley didn’t even _like_ snow. It was cold. It was wet. It infiltrated everything with a slushy damp and she could never quite shake the chill. Aziraphale knew this.

 _Aziraphale_ liked snow. He liked how it blanketed the landscape, the soft quality it gave the air, the gleaming white of it. The way it made for a proper Christmas. Crowley knew this. She was excited for _him._

And trying to hide it, not very well, under a sudden veneer of nonchalance.

 _“Suppose Warlock will be happy, at least,”_ she said, and Aziraphale responded with a fond smile.

_“He will, won’t he?”_

She kept his coat all night and through the following day; he found it on his chair come evening. It carried her scent – the smokey brimstone, the not-quite-apple-not-quite-pear. He breathed it in. He breathed it in until it disappeared.

Now, standing in a private circle of that snow under a Tadfield streetlamp, knowing intimately how that scent translates into _taste,_ Aziraphale is stricken (as he so often is, these days) by how _lucky_ he is. To have survived, and more importantly, for Crowley to have survived as well. To have kept each other. To have weathered it all and come out stronger, somehow not to have lost Warlock’s love through all of it, which always seemed like an impossibility before. To be _here_ with Crowley, so close, as close as he likes. He can hold him until the end of time now. Perhaps beyond.

But everyone’s waiting for supper, so Aziraphale bestows one last lingering kiss on Crowley’s lips and turns to pick up a suitcase. “Shall we go in, then? I’ve spoken to Anathema far too many times alone. I want to show off my husband.” And he flashes a smile at Crowley (who looks struck by the final word, as always) and heads into the house.

It turns out the Them are hosting a rotating succession of slumber parties over the week leading up to Christmas, and tonight they are due at Pepper’s house. Crowley and Aziraphale barely get a _hello_ from Adam and a moment’s goodbye with Warlock before the children are out the door and gone.

“And Anathema has – well, one of her projects, anyway,” says Deirdre Young after their simple supper, in the tones of someone who’s pleased to have new friends but still a little bewildered by the ins and outs of witchcraft. “I think they’ll be around tomorrow. You know how it is for the holidays, everyone’s popping by all the time and then away before you’ve even noticed.” (Aziraphale nods, here, as if he _knows how,_ though of course he doesn’t.) “But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

She looks fondly over at her husband, who is snoozing in his armchair with a newspaper slumped over his face.

“It’s nice to have all the family together,” she says. Hushed, like _this_ is the part that might wake him. “Soon Adam could outgrow all these family moments, you know? I’m dreading the day I get rolled eyes about Christmas. I’m just… trying to stay in the moment. Appreciate it as it comes.”

“That’s very wise.” Aziraphale offers her a gentle smile. “I suppose Warlock’s the same. They do grow quickly.”

“He’s lucky to have godfathers like you,” says Deirdre.

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and turns the smile on him, where it becomes something deeper. “Yes. And we’re lucky to have him.”

Crowley is watching him with a _darling_ expression, sweet and gentle. Aziraphale barely notices when Deirdre goes off to the kitchen.

“How are you, my dear?” Aziraphale asks.

“Good.” Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s hand and presses it to his lips, which has a beat-skipping effect on Aziraphale’s heart. “Long drive, wasn’t it?”

“You’re tired.” It isn’t a question.

“’S too early to be tired.”

“You _are._ Let’s get you to sleep now. Goodness knows we’ll need our energy for the children tomorrow.”

Crowley tugs on his hand with a lazy grin. “Yeah, s’ppose you’re right.”

Aziraphale follows.

The guestroom is small and cozy, done up in shades of pale yellow and cream. There are multiple framed cross-stitches on the walls. Scattered odds and ends (a spool of thread beneath the dresser, three pins on the windowsill, a blanket-draped machine in the corner) suggest recent use as a sewing room before it was pressed back into holiday service.

The bed, too, is cozy, and though it’s not _small,_ it’s certainly not as large as Aziraphale’s*. Someone has added an enormous mound of pillows and blankets as if concerned the guests will not have enough. Human hospitality is one of the near-constants of history – so much weight placed on kindness between guests and hosts, often sincere. Aziraphale unpacks a few possessions into the bedside table and tries to think of ways to repay the Youngs’ generosity.

* _Aziraphale’s bed fills the room with just enough space to walk around it comfortably. This isn’t a very informative metric given that the room, too, changes size as needed. Crowley’s bed – which Aziraphale has only seen once – is even larger, presumably to accommodate the tossing and turning of one giant snake. The Youngs’ guest bed is a queen, and it’s lucky Crowley will be in his human-ish form, because Aziraphale does not relish the thought of his serpent_ thump _ing onto the floor mid-dream and waking with bruises to complain about all holiday._

Aziraphale draws back the covers and then, making sure Crowley’s back is turned, ensures that the sheets are miraculously silk, because Crowley prefers them that way. Deirdre appears in the doorway while Crowley is off… doing whatever he does before bedtime. (He doesn’t need more than a snap to change his clothes, and surely he needn’t brush his teeth? But he’s gone all the same.) “Is everything all right?” she asks.

“It’s perfect,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t know that we can ever thank you enough. It’s lovely that Warlock has friends here, there aren’t many opportunities at home…”

Crowley slides in beside Deirdre, who moves out of his way a bit late. He’s wearing those black silk pyjamas again. Anyone who's ever doubted Crowley’s predilection for silk hadn’t seen him in the Ottoman Empire. “Yeah, it’s good for him, being here. Thanks for putting us up and all.”

Aziraphale practically _glows_ at him for thanking a human, which Crowley studiously ignores.

“Well, give us a shout if you need anything, then,” Deirdre says. “We’re just down the hall.”

“Have a good night!” Aziraphale calls after her. And then she shuts the door, and they’re alone in the room.

Crowley is already diving into the bed, doing a little luxurious roll (a _squirm_ really) among the pillows. His sunglasses somehow disappeared the moment the door closed. He’s grinning under the sheets. “Oh, fantastic. C’mere, angel.”

Aziraphale notices Crowley has taken the left side of the bed, and realizes with a start that it’s because Aziraphale has been sitting on the right whenever he reads by Crowley in the middle of the night. He wonders if his blush is visible. All this was _his_ idea, wasn’t it, or at least largely, and still he’s having a sudden bout of remarkable nerves. How much can he look at Crowley without making him uncomfortable? And he does want to look – wants to stare, wants to take in all his dreams coming true, the love of his life finally at his side where he belongs. (Secondarily, how much _cuddling_ can he get away with while Crowley is still this awake? Because he would very much like to maximize that, if possible.)

Stalling for time, Aziraphale snaps and his own clothes are replaced* by a set of flannel pyjamas. He confines the tartan to the collar so as not to completely mortify his bed partner.

* _And folded neatly in a dresser drawer, because not everyone prefers to subject their poor clothing to the immaterial void like a certain demon does._

Then he climbs into bed and Crowley is looking him over with a sort of amused wonder; he reaches out to run his finger along Aziraphale’s collar, which is surely just making Aziraphale’s blush worse.

“Look at you,” Crowley says in amazement.

“I thought I’d better look the part.”

“Of a human? No one thinks we’re human anymore, angel, Adam took care of that. Makes it all easier, doesn’t it, now that Warlock’s sorted.”

Aziraphale wonders what he’s done to earn so many _angel_ s – maybe something about the soft light, the cozy room in a new place, the thrilling proximity. He collects them in his mind as eagerly as he collects any of Crowley’s gifts. “No, of someone on holiday with my _husband.”_ (He stresses the word, tone unabashedly pleased, just to see Crowley make that wondrous expression again.)

He’s a tad put out, honestly, that there haven’t been more chances today to play up their marriage. They’ve so much backstory to put to use! And so many reasons _(excuses)_ to shower Crowley with endearments, with small touches, with everything that might be too soon were there no pretext for it. But tomorrow they will see Anathema and the children, so surely there will be more opportunities then.

And Warlock still thinks they’re married (and _really,_ aren’t they, at least a little, by this point?), even knowing who and what they are.

“You are that,” Crowley murmurs, meaning either _on holiday_ or _with my husband_ or both.

“Crowley… what did you say to get the Dowlings to change their mind?”

This confuses Crowley, which is fair, because it’s a train of thought Aziraphale’s been running all the way since the snow at the streetlamp outside.

“When you convinced them to rearrange my schedule, I mean. So we could go to the ballet.”

“Oh, that.” Crowley flops onto his back and looks up like the ceiling is playing out a memory. His legs are turned further than the joints should allow and his arms are flung out to the sides, one off the edge of the bed entirely, one reaching Aziraphale where he sits up against the headboard with the covers drawn over his lap. Aziraphale tries to be annoyed but can’t. Instead he takes light hold of Crowley’s wrist, tracing over the tendons and fine hairs there. This seems to serve as a distraction. Finally Crowley comes up with a reply: “Dunno, really. Just said there was something you wanted to see, and wouldn’t it be better to have you in on the Tuesday anyway, so you could get the rose garden perfect for Thaddeus’s photo thing next morning. And Harriet said _sure, have fun,_ and I told her I wasn’t going, but I don’t think she believed me. Maybe she just took pity on us. Thinking we were having some grand secret romance.”

 _Weren’t we, though?_ Aziraphale thinks but manages not to say. It’s _true._ “Yes, I suppose that wouldn’t help the rumors. I did appreciate it very much. And I seem to remember the rose garden was already perfect for the photoshoot, though I spent most of Tuesday having little success with the pruning. The French ambassador was so delighted when one of them _bloomed_ in winter.”

Crowley groans and wipes a hand down his face, though not (Aziraphale notes with pleasure) the hand Aziraphale is holding. “Told ’em to make a good impression. Wasn’t expecting such a bloody overachiever.”

“Well, Thaddeus informed me that I’d done a good job, and you know how little he knows about roses.” Or giving compliments. Or acknowledging the existence of staff, usually.

“Suppose we should get something for Harriet. For Christmas, I mean. Maybe something new for the garden.”

“Oh, yes, gifts!” Aziraphale experiences a mild panic at the concept – one he has experienced at least twice a day since Tadfield was arranged. “I _do_ hope I can think of things for the children, and I always have a bit of trouble every year coming up with something for Sergeant Shadwell…”

“Hang on. Have you been giving _gifts_ to Shadwell?”

Aziraphale looks over at him with genuine confusion. “Of course.”

“How long?”

“Since the first year I had him on payroll. He’s practically our employee, you know. And I know his men appreciate their Christmas bonuses.”

Crowley sighs. “You’re ridiculous, angel, you know that?”

It’s fond (and contains another _angel),_ but Aziraphale huffs on principle and retrieves a book from the bedside table to bury himself in. He slides down onto his back, settles his head into the pillow, and pulls up his knees so he has somewhere to place the book.

“At least we’ve got plenty for Warlock,” Crowley says. “Sounds like he had an interesting list this year. Least Harriet covered most of it. I can’t believe Thaddeus got him a bloody _Jonas Brothers_ poster – I mean, I can, but that’s cursed, even for me.”

“He’ll need a new hat,” Aziraphale says, worry creeping into his voice. He is determined that no one he loves be cold this winter. Any winter.

“Yeah, we’ll come up with a good one.” Crowley is cut off by a yawn; he can never be told how cute it is.

“Right, then. Sleep now.” Aziraphale claps the book shut and sets it on top of the table, in easy reach.

“What, _you’re_ sleeping?” Crowley looks intrigued enough by the idea that Aziraphale really will have to try it sometime, if it brings him such joy. But not here. If he’s to surrender his consciousness and leave his vulnerable corporation on its own to dive into the uncertain landscape of dreams, he’ll do it in his own bed.

For now he turns on his side to face Crowley and smiles. Snaps, and the light turns off, with just enough filtering in through the window from the streetlamps for him to make out Crowley’s expression in the dark. “Not tonight, but I don’t want to keep you up with the light, my dear. I’ll turn it back on once you’re sleeping. I don’t know if you know this, but you’re rather difficult to wake.”

Crowley’s face goes soft. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to. Now come here.”

Crowley turns to him and shifts forward obligingly until they’re mere inches apart. Aziraphale takes hold of him, cupping one hand under his jaw so he can reach up to kiss his forehead. And then he moves to Crowley’s mouth and kisses him there, too, sweet and slow, that warm ambrosia he is only now learning to crave. If six thousand years have brought them here, then every moment has been worth it.

He pulls back enough to look into Crowley’s eyes, which gleam brightly, catching the dim light of the streetlamps and reflecting it back in tones of yellow-gold. This is a side of Crowley no one else ever gets to see. He is so open like this, languid, unguarded, and Aziraphale gazes at him with the feeling that he is falling into those eyes, into Crowley’s very being, dizzy and willing. _I could drown in you,_ he thinks. _Will you let me?_

“Good night, angel,” Crowley says quietly, a tenderness he reserves only for this.

“Good night, my dear,” Aziraphale answers, just barely pulling back from _my love._ He’ll say it soon. Whether Crowley’s ready or not. He won’t be able to help himself. “My darling,” he adds, almost in a whisper, because it’s impossible not to.

Crowley reaches up to brush a hand along Aziraphale’s hair, which _does_ feel nice – no wonder Crowley melts when Aziraphale does it. There’s less to work with, but Crowley’s looking attentively at Aziraphale’s white-blond curls. “All lit up,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale realizes he’s talking about the streetlamps from behind him, surely lighting his hair against the backdrop of the window.

“Halo.” Crowley’s smile is dreamy. “Fake halo. Your real one’s better.”

In his bliss, Aziraphale takes a moment to process this. “…Crowley?”

“Should’ve seen you today. Brighter’n the streetlamp. Always liked that. Pretty every time.”

“Every time? What do you…”

Crowley rolls onto his stomach, not moving any further away, just letting Aziraphale press into his side. Usually this means he’s on the very edge of sleep.

Aziraphale gives him a gentle shake. “Crowley. When do I have a halo?”

Crowley laughs drowsily, pressing his face into the pillow. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Crowley!”

His breath becomes deep – there’s no reaching him now. Aziraphale sighs, shakes his head, and holds him closer.

“Ridiculous serpent,” he says with a kiss to Crowley’s temple.

He could pull away and reach for the book now, turn on the light, but he doesn’t want to immerse himself in some other world. Not when this one is right here for the taking. Both of them where they belong, at long last. Everything he has ever wanted.

A week in Tadfield, like this, and then home, where it can continue and grow. And soon he’ll keep his promise to himself, to tell Crowley all the words they’ve shied away from and pray he isn’t scared off for good. So far the signs are positive that he’ll stay.

They have all the time in the world, but Aziraphale can’t wait that long, not anymore. He’ll do it before they leave Tadfield. Maybe after Christmas – he can’t risk the day if it all goes wrong – but then… he looks at Crowley, snuggled up to him in the dark. It _won’t_ go wrong, will it? This is Crowley. Crowley who loves him, even if he can’t say it. Crowley, who said he wouldn’t leave him, and never breaks his word.

“Everything I’ve ever wanted,” Aziraphale whispers, and starts planning in earnest what to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Someone come tell my boss to stop wanting my help, I have writing to do~~
> 
> Warlock’s been through a lot, okay? He just needs hugs. And biscuits. And maybe a godfather who’s willing to turn into a giant snake to entertain his friends. But he has all those things, so he’s good.
> 
> I wrote out Warlock’s first conversations with Adam & the Them so I could track where he’s coming from – might post that separately someday!
> 
> Tomorrow (y’all know that means in-story, not irl, right? at least next one will be wayyy sooner than this one, wasn’t exactly planning on this one to be 11k), for the prompt ‘solstice’: Anathema brings the group in on some special traditions. Crowley recalls a Hopi ceremony with a delightful focus on a snake. Madeleines and explanations are shared, while Crowley wonders just how quickly it’s possible for someone to fall in love.


End file.
